vered that he was in very
low spirits--a dismal foreboding had haunted him all forenoon; and as it
would not do to betray any depression in the ball-room, he rather thought
that a flask of champagne would alleviate his melancholy symptoms. The
Saxon loved his ally too much to interpose any objections, so the cork of
the Sillery was started. A jug of ale during dinner, and a pint of port
after cheese, were fair and legitimate indulgences; and these being
discussed, Cutts proceeded to the stable to look after the horses. All was
right; and after an affecting exhortation to the postilions to keep
themselves rigidly sober, the Saxon rejoined his friend.

"It is a great relief to my mind, Mackinnon," said Cutts, throwing himself
back in his chair, and exposing his feet to the comfortable radiance of
the fire, "to think that matters are likely to go on swimmingly. It's a
fine frosty starlight night--just the sort of weather you would select for
a bolt; and Freddy and his dove will be as comfortable inside the chaise
as if they were in cotton."

"Rather cold, though, on the rumble," replied Mackinnon.

"Gad, you're right," said the Saxon. "I say, don't you think, since I'm
good-natured enough to expose myself in that way, we might have a bottle
of mulled port just by way of fortifier?"

"You're a devilish sensible fellow, Cutts," said Mackinnon; and he rang
the bell.

"Won't it be rare fun!" said Sacks, helping himself to a rummer of the
reeking fluid. "Think what a jolly scamper we shall have. The horses' feet
ringing like metal as they tear full gallop along the road, and old Morgan
in a buggy behind, swearing like an incarnate demon! Mac, here's your good
health; you're a capital fellow. Give us a song, old chap! I won't see you
again for three weeks at the soonest. My eyes! what a rage Ginger will be
in!"

Mackinnon was of a Jacobite family who had rather burned their fingers in
the Forty-five, and being also somewhat of a sentimental turn, he
invariably became lachrymose over his liquor, and poured out the passion
of his soul in lamentations over the fall of the Stuarts. Instead,
therefore, of favouring Cutts with any congenial ditty from the Coal-hole
or Cider-cellar, he struck up "Drummossie muir, Drummossie day," in a
style that would have drawn tears from an Edinburgh ticket-porter. Sacks,
without having any distinct idea of the period of history to which the
ballad referred, pronounced it to be deuced touching;