e could not expect to find among
the ruins any more rational informer.

Davie, walking very fast, soon reached the extremity of the garden, and
scrambled over the ruins of the wall that once had divided it from the
wooded glen in which the old Tower of Tully-Veolan was situated. He
then jumped down into the bed of the stream, and, followed by Waverley,
proceeded at a great pace, climbing over some fragments of rock, and
turning with difficulty round others. They passed beneath the ruins
of the castle; Waverley followed, keeping up with his guide with
difficulty, for the twilight began to fall. Following the descent of the
stream a little lower, he totally lost him, but a twinkling light, which
he now discovered among the tangled copse-wood and bushes, seemed a
surer guide. He soon pursued a very uncouth path; and by its guidance at
length reached the door of a wretched hut. A fierce barking of dogs was
at first heard, but it stilled at his approach. A voice sounded from
within, and he held it most prudent to listen before he advanced.

'Wha hast thou brought here, thou unsonsy villain, thou?' said an old
woman, apparently in great indignation. He heard Davie Gellatley, in
answer, whistle a part of the tune by which he had recalled himself to
the simpleton's memory, and had now no hesitation to knock at the door.
There was a dead silence instantly within, except the deep growling of
the dogs; and he next heard the mistress of the hut approach the door,
not probably for the sake of undoing a latch, but of fastening a bolt.
To prevent this, Waverley lifted the latch himself.

In front was an old wretched-looking woman, exclaiming, 'Wha comes into
folk's houses in this gate, at this time o' the night?' On one side, two
grim and half-starved deer greyhounds laid aside their ferocity at
his appearance, and seemed to recognize him. On the other side, half
concealed by the open door, yet apparently seeking that concealment
reluctantly, with a cocked pistol in his right hand, and his left in the
act of drawing another from his belt, stood a tall bony gaunt figure in
the remnants of a faded uniform, and a beard of three weeks' growth.

It was the Baron of Bradwardine. It is unnecessary to add, that he threw
aside his weapon, and greeted Waverley with a hearty embrace.

CHAPTER LXIV

COMPARING OF NOTES

The Baron's story was short, when divested of the adages and
commonplaces, Latin, English, and Scotch, with which his