"Dioul! we have been but one night in this land of Holstein, and this inflammatory student hath fallen in love!" replied Ian, laughing aloud, for he thought I was jesting. "How these petticoats influence the fate and the fancies of men!" "And where does this fair dame dwell?" said Angus. "Below us; did you not hear me speaking about her to the _husbonde_, Hausmeister, or whatever yonder august man in boots considers himself." "How could we? you spoke in Dutch." "Or Spanish, or some such gibberish, known only to yourselves," said Ian, slicing down the ham with his dirk. "Below us, too," continued Angus Roy; "that is good! Why, Phadrig Mhor and I investigated the whole place when we came in yesterday, and saw no woman but that delectable old housekeeper, with her linen coif and wrinkled visage. Depend upon it, there is no lady here!" "You are as bad as that sullen dog, the Herr; for I assure you there is a woman--a lady--a very pretty one, too! Pass the beer-can, Angus, please." "'Tis a fairy," said the sergeant, Mhor, breaking his sixth egg. "She is fair as the daughter of the snow--that love of Fingal, of whom I have heard you sing a hundred times, Phadrig," said I. "Here, in this desolate house?" "Below us, Ian, as I have said, in a magnificent chamber, too." "Come, now," replied Ian, "he is jesting with us all; this is some quip he has picked up at college. Look at us again, cousin Philip, have our ears grown, since we marched in yesterday?" "Cousin Ian, I never was more serious in my life." "Why, you might as well tell us there was snow last night, as that this beautiful lady and stately apartment are in this mansion, when we searched every nook and corner of it for food, fuel, and furniture, and the sergeant thrust his Lochaber axe into every hole we could not enter ourselves. And pretty, you say?" "Actually beautiful! a dazzling skin--dark hair--an adorable figure--the air of a countess." "What a diamond?" exclaimed Angus Roy, shaking back the thick red hair which gained him that sobriquet; "what a love of a little woman she must be! By the grey stone of M'Gregor, I would give my best brooch to see her! however," he continued, pouring some skeidam into his silver-hooped hunting quaigh, "I drink to her health." "A fairy's health?" said Ian. "Nay, to the countess thou knowest about, Philip," and then the whole three laughed loudly, like frank hearty mountaineers, as they were. "Beware of snares, Philip," said Ian, as he adjusted his graceful plaid with the brooch of Moina Rose; "as for me, I would not give my brown-eyed Highland maid for all the dames of Almaynie--by St. Colm of the Isles, I would not!" and, as he buckled on his sword, the light-hearted young chief began to sing an old Gaëlic song. "_Gu ma slàn a chì mi, Mo chaillin dileas donn; Air 'n d' fhas an cualan reidh, 'S air an deise dh'eireadh fonn._