it was
broken by the tramp of horses, the hoarse voice of men, and the wild
sound of the trumpets blowing the _reveille_. The sergeant-major
immediately afterwards came to summon him, which he did in a very
respectful manner, saying the General (for Claverhouse now held that
rank) hoped for the pleasure of his company upon the road. In some
situations an intimation is a command, and Morton considered that the
present occasion was one of these. He waited upon Claverhouse as speedily
as he could, found his own horse saddled for his use, and Cuddie in
attendance. Both were deprived of their fire-arms, though they seemed,
otherwise, rather to make part of the troop than of the prisoners; and
Morton was permitted to retain his sword, the wearing which was, in those
days, the distinguishing mark of a gentleman. Claverhouse seemed also to
take pleasure in riding beside him, in conversing with him, and in
confounding his ideas when he attempted to appreciate his real character.
The gentleness and urbanity of that officer's general manners, the high
and chivalrous sentiments of military devotion which he occasionally
expressed, his deep and accurate insight into the human bosom, demanded
at once the approbation and the wonder of those who conversed with him;
while, on the other hand, his cold indifference to military violence and
cruelty seemed altogether inconsistent with the social, and even
admirable qualities which he displayed. Morton could not help, in his
heart, contrasting him with Balfour of Burley; and so deeply did the idea
impress him, that he dropped a hint of it as they rode together at some
distance from the troop.

"You are right," said Claverhouse, with a smile; "you are very right--we
are both fanatics; but there is some distinction between the fanaticism
of honour and that of dark and sullen superstition."

"Yet you both shed blood without mercy or remorse," said Morton, who
could not suppress his feelings.

"Surely," said Claverhouse, with the same composure; "but of what
kind?--There is a difference, I trust, between the blood of learned and
reverend prelates and scholars, of gallant soldiers and noble gentlemen,
and the red puddle that stagnates in the veins of psalm-singing
mechanics, crackbrained demagogues, and sullen boors;--some distinction,
in short, between spilling a flask of generous wine, and dashing down a
can full of base muddy ale?"

"Your distinction is too nice for my comprehension," rep