Waverley riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without any adventure save one or two queries¹, which the talisman² of his passport sufficiently³ answered, reached the borders of Scotland. Here he heard the tidings of the decisive battle of Culloden. It was no more than he had long expected, though the success at Falkirk had thrown a faint and setting gleam over the arms of the Chevalier. Yet it came upon him like a shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. The generous, the courteous⁴, the noble-minded adventurer was then a fugitive⁵, with a price upon his head; his adherents⁶, so brave, so enthusiastic, so faithful, were dead, imprisoned⁷, or exiled. Where, now, was the exalted⁸ and high-souled Fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night at Clifton? Where the pure-hearted and primitive⁹ Baron¹⁰ of Bradwardine, whose foibles seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness¹¹ of his disposition¹², the genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshaken courage? Those who clung for support to these fallen columns, Rose and Flora¹⁴, where were they to be sought, and in what

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