And could aught be more picturesque than our Highland bivouac, lighted up by wavering watchfires and the brilliant queen of night--the Celtic soldiers muffled in their dark-green plaids, their rough bare knees, hardy as the stems of the mountain pine, and alike impervious to the summer heat and winter cold, lying asleep upon their "umbered arms," or seated in groups, singing old songs, or telling wild stories of those distant glens from which, as _Seidaran Dearg_ or "Red Soldiers," the chances of the Belgian war had brought them here.
I was delighted with the old chief and his sons--they were so free and gay in manner, so frank and bold in bearing, while there was something alike noble and patriarchal in the circumstance of their stately old father leading a company of brave hearts, nearly all of whom were men of his own name and kindred. The fire had been freshly heaped with billets and fagots, the demijohn still bled freely; we had just concluded a merry chorus, which made the Uhlan videttes on the distant plain prick up their ears and listen, and we had reached that jovial point when a little wit goes a very long way, when Sergeant Ronald MacAra, the old henchman, approached Captain Maclean, and placing a hand upon his shoulder with that kind but respectful familiarity which his relation as a foster-brother sanctioned, said with impressive solemnity--
"For the love of the blessed God, see that ye do not fight the stranger to-morrow with your stomach fasting."
The ruddy face of the old soldier grew pale.
"No, Ronald," said he; "our race has already paid dear for neglecting that strange warning."
"God and Mary forbid!" muttered two of his sons, crossing themselves devoutly.
"Keep something for me in your havresack, Ronald," said the captain, "and call me before the drums beat for marching; keep something for the laddies, too--for the Lord forfend that ever son of mine should draw his blade with a fasting stomach under his belt."
"A wise precaution, Maclean," said old Captain Campbell of Finab; "but Gude kens we have often had to draw our blades here in Low Germanie, and fall on, without other breakfast than a tightened waist-belt."
"True; but it was by omitting to break his fast that my worthy ancestor Sir Lauchlan Maclean lost his life in Mull, and hence the warning of Sergeant MacAra, my fosterer."