ween mair grey plaids are coming up behind; and if you are
wranged, there is the hand of a Manly Morrison, we'll see you righted,
if Carlisle and Stanwix baith took up the feud."

"To tell you the truth," said Robin Oig, desirous of eluding the
suspicions of his friend, "I have enlisted with a party of the Black
Watch, and must march off to-morrow morning."

"Enlisted! Were you mad or drunk? You must buy yourself off. I can
lend you twenty notes, and twenty to that, if the drove sell."

"I thank you--thank ye, Hughie; but I go with good-will the gate that I
am going; so the dirk--the dirk!"

"There it is for you then, since less wunna serve. But think on what I
was saying. Waes me, it will be sair news in the braes of Balquidder,
that Robin Oig M'Combich should have run an ill gate, and ta'en on."

"Ill news in Balquidder, indeed!" echoed poor Robin; "but Cot speed
you, Hughie, and send you good marcats. Ye winna meet with Robin Oig
again, either at tryste or fair."

So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaintance, and set out
in the direction from which he had advanced, with the spirit of his
former pace.

"There is something wrang with the lad," muttered the Morrison to
himself; "but we will maybe see better into it the morn's morning."

But long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe of our tale had taken
place. It was two hours after the affray had happened, and it was
totally forgotten by almost every one, when Robin Oig returned to
Heskett's inn. The place was filled at once by various sorts of men
and with noises corresponding to their character. There were the grave
low sounds of men engaged in busy traffic, with the tough, the song,
and the riotous jest of those who had nothing to do but to enjoy
themselves. Among the last was Harry Wakefield, who, amidst a grinning
group of smock-frocks, hobnailed shoes, and jolly English
physiognomies, was trolling forth the old ditty.

What though my name be Roger,
Who drives the plough and cart--"

when he was interrupted by a well-known voice saying in a high and
stern voice, marked by the sharp Highland accent, "Harry Waakfelt, if
you be a man, stand up!"

"What is the matter?--what is it?" the guests demanded of each other.

"It is only a d--d Scotsman," said Fleecebumpkin, who was by this time
very drunk, "whom Harry Wakefield helped to his broth to-day, who is
now come to have his cauld kail het again."

"Harry Waakfelt," repeat