liment, for, in his opinion, Luckie
Middlemass's sign was an exquisite specimen of art. Waverley, however,
not feeling the full force of this polite simile, asked him no further
questions.

Upon extricating themselves from the mean and dirty suburbs of the
metropolis, and emerging into the open air, Waverley felt a renewal both
of health and spirits, and turned his recollection with firmness upon
the events of the preceding evening, and with hope and resolution
towards those of the approaching day.

When he had surmounted a small craggy eminence, called St. Leonard's
Hill, the King's Park, or the hollow between the mountain of Arthur's
Seat, and the rising grounds on which the southern part of Edinburgh
is now built, lay beneath him, and displayed a singular and animating
prospect. It was occupied by the army of the Highlanders, now in the act
of preparing for their march. Waverley had already seen something of the
kind at the hunting-match which he attended with Fergus Mac-Ivor; but
this was on a scale of much greater magnitude, and incomparably deeper
interest. The rocks, which formed the background of the scene, and the
very sky itself, rang with the clang of the bagpipers, summoning
forth, each with his appropriate pibroch, his chieftain and clan. The
mountaineers, rousing themselves from their couch under the canopy of
heaven, with the hum and bustle of a confused and irregular multitude,
like bees alarmed and arming in their hives, seemed to possess all the
pliability of movement fitted to execute military manoeuvres. Their
motions appeared spontaneous and confused, but the result was order and
regularity; so that a general must have praised the conclusion, though a
martinet might have ridiculed the method by which it was attained.

The sort of complicated medley created by the hasty arrangements of the
various clans under their respective banners, for the purpose of getting
into the order of march, was in itself a gay and lively spectacle. They
had no tents to strike, having generally, and by choice, slept upon the
open field, although the autumn was now waning, and the nights began to
be frosty. For a little space, while they were getting into order, there
was exhibited a changing, fluctuating; and confused appearance of
waving tartans and floating plumes, and of banners displaying the proud
gathering word of Clanronald, GANION COHERIGA (Gainsay who dares);
LOCH-SLOY, the watchword of the Mac-Farlanes; FORTH F