It was now holiday time, and having nothing particular wherewith to occupy myself, I not unfrequently passed the greater part of the day upon the rocks. Once, after scaling the western crags, and creeping round a sharp angle of the wall, overhung by a kind of watch tower, I found myself on the southern side. Still keeping close to the wall, I was proceeding onward, for I was bent upon a long excursion which should embrace half the circuit of the castle, when suddenly my eye was attracted by the appearance of something red, far below me; I stopped short, and, looking fixedly upon it, perceived that it was a human being in a kind of red jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice, which I have already made a faint attempt to describe. Wondering who it could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, remaining as immovable as the rock on which it sat. "I should never have thought of going near that edge," said I to myself; "however, as you have done it, why should not I? And I should like to know who you are." So I commenced the descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet never been in a situation so dangerous; a slight moisture exuded from the palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain was somewhat dizzy--and now I had arrived within a few yards of the figure, and had recognised it: it was the wild drummer who had turned the tide of battle in the bicker on the Castle Brae. A small stone which I dislodged now rolled down the rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him. He turned his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly, he resumed his former attitude. I drew yet nearer to the horrible edge; not close, however, for fear was on me. "What are you thinking of, David?" said I, as I sat behind him and trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid. _David Haggart_. I was thinking of Willie Wallace. _Myself_. You had better be thinking of yourself, man. A strange place this to come to and think of William Wallace. _David Haggart_. Why so? Is not his tower just beneath our feet? _Myself_. You mean the auld ruin by the side of the Nor Loch--the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke, where the watercresses grow? _David Haggart_. Just sae, Geordie. _Myself_. And why were ye thinking of him? The English hanged him long since, as I have heard say. _David Haggart_. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him. _Myself_. Do ye mean that ye would wish to be hanged? _David Haggart_. I wad na flinch from that, Geordie, if I might be a great man first. _Myself_. And wha kens, Davie, how great you may be, even without hanging? Are ye not in the high road of preferment? Are ye not a bauld drummer already? Wha kens how high ye may rise? perhaps to be general, or drum-major.