The conflicting passions and exhausted feelings of Waverley had resigned him to late but sound repose. He was dreaming of Glennaquoich, and had transferred to the halls of lan nan Chaistel the festal train which so lately graced those of Holyrood. The pibroch too was distinctly heard; and this at least was no delusion, for the ‘proud step of the chief piper’ of the ‘chlain MacIvor’ was perambulating the court before the door of his Chieftain’s quarters, and as Mrs. Flockhart, apparently no friend to his minstrelsy, was pleased to observe, ‘garring the very stane-and-lime wa’s dingle wi’ his screeching.’ Of course it soon became too powerful for Waverley’s dream, with which it had at first rather harmonised.

The sound of Callum’s brogues in his apartment (for Mac-Ivor had again assigned Waverley to his care) was the next note of parting. ‘Winna yer honour bang up? Vich lan Vohr and ta Prince are awa to the lang green glen ahint the clachan, tat they ca’ the King’s Park,82 and mony ane’s on his ain shanks the day that will be carried on ither folk’s ere night.’

Waverley sprung up, and, with Callum’s assistance and instructions, adjusted his tartans in proper costume. Callum told him also,’ tat his leather dorlach wi’ the lock on her was come frae Doune, and she was awa again in the wain wi’ Vich Ian Vohr’s walise.’

By this periphrasis Waverley readily apprehended his portmanteau was intended. He thought upon the mysterious packet of the maid of the cavern, which seemed always to escape him when within his very grasp. But this was no time for indulgence of curiosity; and having declined Mrs. Flockhart’s compliment of a MORNING, i.e. a matutinal dram, being probably the only man in the Chevalier’s army by whom such a courtesy would have been rejected, he made his adieus and departed with Callum.

‘Callum,’ said he, as they proceeded down a dirty close to gain the southern skirts of the Canongate, ‘what shall I do for a horse?’

‘Ta deil ane ye maun think o’,’ said Callum. ‘Vich Ian Vohr’s marching on foot at the head o’ his kin (not to say ta Prince, wha does the like), wi’ his target on his shoulder; and ye maun e’en be neighbour-like.’

‘And so I will, Callum, give me my target; so, there we are fixed. How does it look?’

‘Like the bra’ Highlander tat’s painted on the board afore the mickle change-house they ca’ Luckie Middlemass’s,’ answered Callum; meaning, I must observe, a high compliment, for in his opinion Luckie Middlemass’s sign was an exquisite specimen of art. Waverley, however, not feeling the full force of this polite simile, asked him no further questions.

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