"Pugh!" ejaculated the Scot. "Ye don't know. Then I'll tell ye. Joost gi'e me the liver and a few ither wee bit innards, some oatmeal, pepper, salt, an onion, and the bahg, and I'll make you a dish that ye'll say will be as good as the heathen deities lived on." "Do you know what that was?" said Fitz. "Ay, laddie; it was a kind of broth, or brose--ambrose, they called it, but I dinna believe a word of it. Ambrose, they ca'ed it! But how could they get hahm or brose up in the clouds? A'm thinking that the heathen gods didn't eat at all, but sippit and suppit the stuff they got from the top of a mountain somewhere out in those pairts--I've read it all, laddies, in an auld book called _Pantheon_--mixed with dew, mountain-dew." "Nonsense!" cried Fitz, breaking into a pleasant laugh. "Nay, it's no nonsense, laddie. I've got it all down, prented in a book. Ambrosia, the chiel ca'ed it, because he didn't know how to spell, and when I came to thenk I see it all as plain as the nose on your face. It was not ambrose at all, but Athol brose." "And what's that?" cried Fitz. "Hech, mon! And ye a young laird and officer and dinna ken what Athol brose is!" "No," said Fitz; "we learnt so much Greek and Latin at my school that we had to leave out the Scotch." "Hearken to him, young Poole Reed! Not to know that! But it is Greek-- about the Greek gods and goddesses. And ye dinna ken what Athol brose is?" "No," said Fitz; "I never heard of it in my life." "Weel, then, I'll just tell ye, though it's nae good for boys. It's joost a meexture half honey and half whisky, or mountain-dew; and noo ye ken." "But you are not going to make a mess like that when you get a sheep." "Ship, laddie--ship. If ye ca' it like that naebody will think ye mean a mutton that goes on four feet." "Well, pronounce it your own way," said Fitz. "But what is this wonderful dish you mean to make?" "He means kidney-broth, made with the liver," said Poole. "Nay, nay. Dinna you mind him, laddie. He only said that to make you laugh. You bide a wee, and I'll make one fit for a Queen. You've never tasted haggis, but some day you shall." Andy Cawmell closed one eye and gave the convalescent what was intended for a very mysterious, confidential look, and then stole gravely out of the cabin, closed the door after him, and opened it directly after, to thrust in his head, the basin, and the spoon. "D'ye mind, laddie," he whispered, tapping the basin, "at twa bells every day the meexture as before." He closed the door again, and this time did not return, though Fitz waited for a few moments before speaking, his eyes twinkling now with merriment. "Haggis!" he cried. "Scotch haggis! Of course, I know. It's mincemeat boiled in the bag of the pipes with the pipes themselves chopped up for bones. You've heard of it before?" "Oh yes, though I never tasted it. Andy makes one for the lads whenever he gets a chance." "Do they eat it?"