. Sir John of Bradwardine--Black Sir
John, as he is called--who was the common ancestor of our house and the
Inch-Grabbits, little thought such a person would have sprung from his
loins. Meantime, he has accused me to some of the primates, the rulers
for the time, as if I were a cut-throat, and an abettor of bravoes and
assassinates, and coupe-jarrets. And they have sent soldiers here to
abide on the estate, and hunt me like a partridge upon the mountains,
as Scripture says of good King David, or like our valiant Sir William
Wallace,--not that I bring myself into comparison with either.--I
thought, when I heard you at the door, they had driven the auld deer to
his den at last; and so I e'en proposed to die at bay, like a buck of
the first head.--But now, Janet, canna ye gie us something for supper?'

'Ou aye, sir, I'll brander the moor-fowl that John Heatherblutter
brought in this morning; and ye see puir Davie's roasting the black
hen's eggs.--I daur say, Mr. Wauverley, ye never kend that a' the eggs
that were sae weel roasted at supper in the Ha'-house were aye turned
by our Davie?--there's no the like o' him ony gate for powtering wi'
his fingers amang the het peat-ashes, and roasting eggs. Davie all this
while lay with his nose almost in the fire, nuzzling among the ashes,
kicking his heels, mumbling to himself, turning the eggs as they lay in
the hot embers, as if to confute the proverb, that 'there goes reason to
roasting of eggs,' and justify the eulogium which poor Janet poured out
upon

Him whom she loved, her idiot boy.

Davie's no sae silly as folk tak him for, Mr. Wauverley; he wadna
hae brought you here unless he had kend ye was a friend to his
Honour--indeed the very dogs kend ye, Mr. Wauverley, for ye was aye kind
to beast and body.--I can tell you a story o' Davie, wi' his Honour's
leave: His Honour, ye see, being under hiding in thae sair times--the
mair's the pity--he lies a' day, and whiles a' night, in the cove in the
dern hag; but though it 's a bieldy eneugh bit, and the auld gudeman o'
Corse-Cleugh has panged it wi' a kemple o' strae amaist, yet when the
country's quiet, and the night very cauld, his Honour whiles creeps doun
here to get a warm at the ingle, and a sleep amang the blankets, and
gangs awa in the morning. And so, ae morning, siccan a fright as I
got! Twa unlucky red-coats were up for black-fishing, or some siccan
ploy--for the neb o' them's never out o' mischief--and they just