y, "pardon me if I seem to act stagy, I am _not_
acting. We Mackenzies are a wild and headstrong lot, and too proud, I
own, by far. We cannot help our nature. But here in your presence I vow
that now this good blade shall be my bride; that I'll be true to her,
and she as true as steel to me."

"Bravo, Jack!" cried M'Hearty, bursting into the room; "I've heard it
all. And now, my lad, I bring you good tidings. I've run all the way
from the port-admiral's office to be the very first to shake hands with
Post-Captain Jack Mackenzie."

CHAPTER VI.

A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.

"O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning."
BURNS.

General Grant Mackenzie was a somewhat impulsive man. It is the nature
of the Celt to be impulsive. His nervous system is far more finely
strung than that of the plethoric or adipose Saxon, and it vibrates to
the slightest breath of emotion. Mind, I talk of the ideal Celt--be he
Irish or Scotch--and General Grant Mackenzie was an ideal Celt. And
sitting here with my good guitar on my knee, I cannot help comparing a
nature like his to just such a beautiful stringed instrument as this.
What a world of fine feeling lies herein; what a wealth of poetry, what
sadness, what tenderness--ay, and what passion as well! Behold, on this
music-stand lies a big old book--a book with a story to it, for it
belonged to my unfortunate ancestor Symon Fraser of Lovat, who was
beheaded on Tower Hill. It is Highland music all, and sweet to me are
its mournful laments as breathed by my sad guitar; but--I turn a
leaf--and here is a battle-piece. Ha! the instrument hath lost its
sadness, or only here and there come wailing notes like moans of the
wounded amidst the hurry, the scurry, the dashing, and the clashing of
this terrible tulzie. Can't you see the claymores glitter? Can't you see
the tartans wave, and nodding plumes among the rolling smoke? Oh, I can.
Seems as if the guitar would burst its very strings; but, the battle is
over--cry of vanquished, shout of victor, all are hushed. And now comes
the ghostly music of the coronach: they are burying the dead. And the
instrument appears to sob, to weep, till the sweet low song of grief in
cadence dies.

A nature like that of Grant Mackenzie, then, or of his son--for both
seemed cast in the same mould--needs a well-trained, well-balanced mind
to guide and restrain it; for there are few o