His aspect was remarkable, and had something alike impressive and terrible about it. He was dressed like a Lowland peasant; but his complexion was dark as that of a mulatto. His hair, beard, and whiskers were of raven blackness; the latter appendages, which he wore in great profusion, grew close up to his keen and restless eyes, which glared from under the shadow of his beetling brows and broad round bonnet, like those of a polecat from under a bush; but his grey plaid, the folds of which were full and ample, rose high upon his breast and concealed his mouth. His eyes, which had all the fascinating glare of the fierce bright orbs of the rattle-snake, leisurely surveyed the quailing soldiers one after another in silence, and then he grinned, as if pleased by the startling impression his sudden appearance created, and spreading his strong, brown, swarthy hands over the flames, thrust them almost into the fire, without seeming to feel the heat in any way oppressive. "Who are you?' asked the sergeant, firmly. "One whom you may perhaps know well enough by-and-by," replied the other, with a grimace. "Are you a Lowlander?" asked the corporal. "Dioul!" growled the other; "did such pure Gaelic as mine ever come from the tongue of a bodach in breeks? But speak out, my friends; of what are you afraid?" "I fear nothing human," replied the sergeant; "but I fear God, and hate the devil and all his works." "What wrong has the devil ever done you?" "He put it in the heart of a vile Cateran to draw his dirk on me at the Inverness cattle tryst in August last." "Nay, sergeant, it was not the poor devil who caused this, but your hot Highland whiskey and temper to boot. Yet I do not think you have much to complain of, as you well nigh slew him afterwards." "The devil?" "No--the Cateran, as you call him. As for the devil, he, poor fellow, is very much maligned on earth, I assure you." "'Twas only a dab with a dirk I gave the Cateran, and he gave me another." "A dab--a severe wound?" "Bah! I would let any honest man do as much to me, for a good dram, any day; like true Highlanders, we parted after the first blood drawn." The dark man gave one of his ferocious grins, as he said, "You parted--true; but how fared it with your assailant?" "He was lodged by the meddling provost and bailies in the bottle dungeon in the middle arch of Inverness Bridge." "Yes--confined there, with nothing between him and the rain and wind of heaven but an iron grating--a narrow hatch of steel ribs, over which the wayfarers tread, and there he is yet."* * This _oubliette_ perished with the old Bridge of Inverness. "All this is the provost's fault, _not_ mine. _We_ march by daybreak," said the sergeant, who had imbibed a strange mistrust and fear of this nocturnal visitor; "whither go you?"