precedence somewhat delayed their leaving the
apartment. Lord Menteith insisted upon yielding up that which belonged
to his rank, on consideration of his being in his own country, and of
his near connexion with the family in which they found themselves. The
two English strangers, therefore, were first ushered into the hall,
where an unexpected display awaited them. The large oaken table was
spread with substantial joints of meat, and seats were placed in
order for the guests. Behind every seat stood a gigantic Highlander,
completely dressed and armed after the fashion of his country, holding
in his right hand his drawn sword, with the point turned downwards, and
in the left a blazing torch made of the bog-pine. This wood, found in
the morasses, is so full of turpentine, that, when split and dried, it
is frequently used in the Highlands instead of candles. The unexpected
and somewhat startling apparition was seen by the red glare of
the torches, which displayed the wild features, unusual dress, and
glittering arms of those who bore them, while the smoke, eddying up to
the roof of the hall, over-canopied them with a volume of vapour. Ere
the strangers had recovered from their surprise, Allan stept forward,
and pointing with his sheathed broadsword to the torch-bearers, said,
in a deep and stern tone of voice, "Behold, gentlemen cavaliers, the
chandeliers of my brother's house, the ancient fashion of our ancient
name; not one of these men knows any law but their Chiefs command--Would
you dare to compare to THEM in value the richest ore that ever was dug
out of the mine? How say you, cavaliers?--is your wager won or lost?"

"Lost; lost," said Musgrave, gaily--"my own silver candlesticks are all
melted and riding on horseback by this time, and I wish the fellows
that enlisted were half as trusty as these.--Here, sir," he added to the
Chief, "is your money; it impairs Hall's finances and mine somewhat, but
debts of honour must be settled."

"My father's curse upon my father's son," said A

William Babington Maxwell (18661938) was a British novelist. He was a son of novelist Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Though nearly 50 years old at the outbreak of the First World War, he was accepted as a lieutenant in the Royal Fusiliers and served in France until 1917.

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