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injury sustained from a friend; and by the desire of vengeance on one whom he now accounted his most bitter enemy. The treasured ideas of self importance and self-opinion——of ideal birth and quality, had become more precious to him, (like the hoard to the miser,) because he could only enjoy them in secret. But that hoard was pillaged, the idols which he had secretly worshipped it had been desecrated and profaned. Insulted, abused, and beaten, he was no longer worthy, in his own opinion, of the name he bore, or the lineage which he belonged to——nothing was left to him——nothing but revenge; and, as the reflection added a galling spur to every step, he determined it should be as sudden and signal as the offence.
When Robin Oig left the door of the alehouse, seven or eight English miles at least lay betwixt Morrison and him. The advance of the former was slow, limited by the sluggish pace of his cattle; the last left behind him stubble-field and hedge-row, crag, and dark heath, all glittering with frost-rime in the broad November moonlight, at the rate of six miles an hour. And now the distant lowing of Morrison’s cattle is heard; and now they are seen creeping like moles in size and slowness of motion on the broad face of the moor; and now he meets them—passes them, and stops their conduction. “May good betide us,” said the Southlander————"Is this you, Robin M'Combich, or your wraith!” “It is Robin Oig M'Combich,” answered the Highlander, “ and it is not.——But never mind that, put pe giving me the skenedhu.” “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 be words petween us.” “ Indeed, Robin, I’ll be better advised or I gie it back to you——it is a wanchancy weapon in a Higlandman’s hand, and I am thinking you will be about some barsbreaking.” “Pratt, trutt! let me have my weapon
