said Evan Dhu (now Ensign
Maccombich) to Fergus's buxom landlady.

'He's vera weel,' said the Widow Flockhart, 'but no naething sae
weel-far'd as your colonel, ensign.'

'I wasna comparing them,' quoth Evan, 'nor was I speaking about his being
weel-favoured; but only that Mr. Waverley looks clean-made and deliver,
and like a proper lad o' his quarters, that will not cry barley in a
brulzie. And, indeed, he's gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target. I
hae played wi' him mysell at Glennaquoich, and sae has Vich lan Vohr,
often of a Sunday afternoon.'

'Lord forgie ye, Ensign Maccombich,' said the alarmed Presbyterian; 'I'm
sure the colonel wad never do the like o' that!'

'Hout! hout! Mrs. Flockhart,' replied the ensign, 'we're young blude, ye
ken; and young saints, auld deils.'

'But will ye fight wi' Sir John Cope the morn, Ensign Maccombich?'
demanded Mrs. Flockhart of her guest.

'Troth I'se ensure him, an he'll bide us, Mrs. Flockhart,' replied the
Gael.

'And will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, Ensign Maccombich?'
again inquired the landlady.

'Claw for claw, as Conan said to Satan, Mrs. Flockhart, and the deevil
tak the shortest nails.'

'And will the colonel venture on the bagganets himsell?'

'Ye may swear it, Mrs. Flockhart; the very first man will he be, by Saint
Phedar.'

'Merciful goodness! and if he's killed amang the redcoats!' exclaimed the
soft-hearted widow.

'Troth, if it should sae befall, Mrs. Flockhart, I ken ane that will no
be living to weep for him. But we maun a' live the day, and have our
dinner; and there's Vich lan Vohr has packed his dorlach, and Mr.
Waverley's wearied wi' majoring yonder afore the muckle pier-glass; and
that grey auld stoor carle, the Baron o' Bradwardine that shot young
Ronald of Ballenkeiroch, he's coming down the close wi' that droghling
coghling bailie body they ca' Macwhupple, just like the Laird o'
Kittlegab's French cook, wi' his turnspit doggie trindling ahint him, and
I am as hungry as a gled, my bonny dow; sae bid Kate set on the broo',
and do ye put on your pinners, for ye ken Vich lan Vohr winna sit down
till ye be at the head o' the table;--and dinna forget the pint bottle o'
brandy, my woman.'

This hint produced dinner. Mrs. Flockhart, smiling in her weeds like the
sun through a mist, took the head of the table, thinking within herself,
perhaps, that she cared not how long the rebellion lasted that brought
her into company so mu