No. What care I about dry or wet clothes! Here let me lie down and bask in this patch of intenser sunshine at your feet. Don't stir, sir; the Crutch is not the least in the way. NORTH. We must be all up and doing--the HOUR and the MEN. The CAVALCADE. Hush! Hark! the Bagpipe! The Cavalcade can't be more than a mile off. SEWARD. Why staring thus like a Goshawk, sir? BULLER. I hear nothing. Seward, do you? SEWARD. Nothing. And what can he mean by Cavalcade? Yet I believe he has the Second Sight. I have heard it is in the Family. NORTH. Hear nothing? Then both of you must be deaf. But I forget--we Mountaineers are Fine-Ears--your sense of hearing has been educated on the Flat. Not now? "The Campbells are coming,"--that's the march--that's the go--that's the gathering. BULLER. A Horn--a Drum, sure enough--and--and--that incomprehensible mixture of groans and yells must be the Bagpipe. NORTH. See yonder they come, over the hill-top--the ninth mile-stone from Inverary! There's the VAN, by the Road-Surveyor lent me for the occasion, drawn by Four Horses. And there's the WAGGON, once the property of the lessee of the Swiss Giantess, a noble Unicorn. And there the SIX TENT-CARTS, Two-steeded; and there the TWO BOAT-CARRIAGES--horsed I know not how. But don't ye see the bonny BARGES aloft in the air? And Men on horseback--count them--there should be Four. You hear the Bagpipe now--surely--"The Campbells are coming." And here is the whole Concern, gentlemen, close at hand, deploying across the Bridge. BULLER. Has he lost his senses at last? SEWARD. Have we lost ours? A Cavalcade it is, with a vengeance. NORTH. One minute past Seven! True to their time within sixty seconds. This way, this way. Here is the Spot, the Centre of the Grove. Bagpipe--Drum and Horn--music all--silence. Silence, I cry, will nobody assist me in crying silence? SEWARD AND BULLER. Silence--silence--silence. NORTH. Give me the Speaking-Trumpet that I may call Silence. SEWARD. Stentor may put down the Drum, the Horns, the Fifes, and the Serpent, but the Bagpipe is above him--the Drone is deaf as the sea--the Piper moves in a sphere of his own-- BULLER. I don't hear a syllable you are saying--ah! the storm is dead, and now what a BLESSED CALM. NORTH. Wheel into line--Prepare to-- PITCH TENTS. _Enter the Field of the Sycamore Grove on Horseback--ushered by Archy M'Callum_--HARRY SEWARD--MARMADUKE BULLER--VALLANCE VOLUSENE--NEPOS WOODBURN. _Van, Waggon, Carriages, and Carts, &c., form a Barricade between the Rear of the Grove and the road to Dalmally._ Adjutant Archy M'Callum! call the Roll of the Troops. ADJUTANT.