"Enough of this! You mean kindly, Mrs. Kantweel, but I am unused to such consolation," replied Stuart, with that native _hauteur_ which he had resumed now that he had again trod upon Highland heather. "I am very sorry for disturbing you all at so untimely an hour; but I request that the whole household will retire to bed, except my old comrade of the muirs, Jock the gamekeeper, with whom I wish to have a few minutes’ conversation, after he has seen my nag stabled for the night, or rather the remainder of the morning."
In a few minutes the servants were all in their nests, except Jock, who was invited to seat himself at the opposite side of the library-table, on which Jessie had placed decanters of wine and brandy, with a cold repast, which was, however, left untouched by Ronald.
From Jock he learned the completion of the story of his father’s involvement by Macquirk and others, of the sequestration of the effects, the sale of the estate, and of the laird’s departure for Canada with his followers; since which nothing had been heard of him. His grief, during the recital, was excessive; but, since fortune had put it in his power to undo all that misfortune had done, he resolved to bear his temporary distress with resignation: it was, too, with a kind of grim satisfaction that he now remembered having caught a momentary glimpse of a countenance—which it flashed on his mind was that of Æneas Macquirk—pressed against the bars of a loop-hole of the ancient Tolbooth of the Cannongate, on the day the regiment entered Edinburgh so joyously. The worthy Writer having contrived, by his too sharp practice, to secure himself accommodation in the building, and seeing little prospect of release save by the assistance of the finisher of the law, usurped the functions of that personage, and finished himself, by means of a noose of his own tying.
With the first gleam of dawn Ronald quitted Inchavon, rode back to Perth, and returned to Edinburgh as fast as a chaise-and-four could take him; but his spirits were oppressed, and his heart saddened and seared, by the adventures of the preceding night.
"Oh! peace to the ashes of those that have bled For the land where the proud thistle raises its head! * * * * Though their lives are extinguished their spirit remains, And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins; Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes, For the honour and weal of the dear land of cakes." _William Knox._