blocks were arranged, saw-dust was spread—the priest was ready with his book, the headsman with his axe—but there, too, mine eye found you not."
"The gibbet, then, I suppose, must be my doom?" said Lord Menteith. "I wish they had spared me the halter, were it but for the dignity of the peerage."
He spoke this scornfully, yet not without a sort of curiosity, and a wish to receive an answer; for the desire of prying into futurity frequently has some influence even on the minds of those who disavow all belief in the possibility of such predictions.
"Your rank, my lord, will suffer no dishonour in your person, or by the manner of your death. Three times have I seen a Highlander plant his dirk in your bosom—and such will be your fate."
"I wish you would describe him to me," said Lord Menteith, "and I shall save him the trouble of fulfilling your prophesy, if his plaid be passable to sword or pistol."
