, must be my doom?" said Lord Menteith. "Yet
I wish they had spared me the halter, were it but for the dignity of the
peerage."

He spoke this scornfully, yet not without a sort of curiosity, and
a wish to receive an answer; for the desire of prying into futurity
frequently has some influence even on the minds of those who disavow all
belief in the possibility of such predictions.

"Your rank, my lord, will suffer no dishonour in your person, or by the
manner of your death. Three times have I seen a Highlander plant his
dirk in your bosom--and such will be your fate."

"I wish you would describe him to me," said Lord Menteith, "and I
shall save him the trouble of fulfilling your prophecy, if his plaid be
passible to sword or pistol."

"Your weapons," said Allan, "would avail you little; nor can I give you
the information you desire. The face of the vision has been ever averted
from me."

"So be it then," said Lord Menteith, "and let it rest in the uncertainty
in which your augury has placed it. I shall dine not the less merrily
among plaids, and dirks, and kilts to-day."

"It may be so," said Allan; "and, it may be, you do well to enjoy these
moments, which to me are poisoned by auguries of future evil. But I," he
continued--"I repeat to you, that this weapon--that is, such a weapon as
this," touching the hilt of the dirk which he wore, "carries your fate."
"In the meanwhile," said Lord Menteith, "you, Allan, have frightened
the blood from the cheeks of Annot Lyle--let us leave this discourse,
my friend, and go to see what we both understand,--the progress of our
military preparations."

They joined Angus M'Aulay and his English guests, and, in the military
discussions which immediately took place, Allan showed a clearness
of mind, strength of judgment, and precision of thought, totally
inconsistent with the mystical light in which his character has been
hitherto exhibited.

CHAPTER VII.

When Albin her claymore indignantly draws,
When her bonneted chieftains around her shall crowd,
Clan-Ranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array--LOCHEIL'S WARNING.

Whoever saw that morning, the Castle of Darnlinvarach, beheld a busy and
a gallant sight.

The various Chiefs, arriving with their different retinues, which,
notwithstanding their numbers, formed no more than their usual equipage
and body-guard upon occasions of solemnity, saluted the lord o