The Waverley novels, by Sir Walter Scott, complete in 12 vol., printed from the latest English ed., embracing the author's last corrections, prefaces & notes.

436 WAVERLEY NOVELS.
" It is Robin Oig M'Combich," answered the Highlander, "and it is not.
But never mind that, put pe giving me the skene-dhu."
" What! you are for back to the Highlands-The devil! -Have you selt
all off before the fair? This beats all for quick markets!"
" I have not sold - I am not going north - May pe I will never go north
again.-Give me pack my dirk, Hugh Morrison, or there will pe words
petween us."
" Indeed, Robin, I'll be better advised before I gie it back to you-it is a
wanchancy weapon in a Highlandman's hand, and I am thinking you will
be about some barns-breaking."
"Prutt, trutt! let me have my weapon," said Robin Oig, impatiently.
"Hooly, and fairly," said his well-meaning friend. "I'll tell you what
will do better than these dirking doings -Ye ken Highlander, and Lowlander, and Border-men, are a' ae man's bairns when you are over the Scots
dyke. See, the Eskdale callants, and fighting Charlie of Liddesdale, and
the Lockerby lads, and the four Dandies of Lustruther, and a wheen mair
gray 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."
" Inlisted! 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 bFaes 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'll 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 laugh, 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
tone, 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 the day, who is
now come to have his cauld kail het again."
"Harry Waakfelt," repeated the same ominous summons, "stand up, if
you be a man 1"
There is something in the tone of deep and concentrated passion, which