He turned upon his heel, and left me to meditate on the singular events which had befallen me. My first care was to adjust my dress and reassume my cloak, disposing it so as to conceal the blood which flowed down my right side. I had scarcely accomplished this, when, the classes of the college being dismissed, the gardens began to be filled with parties of the students. I therefore left them as soon as possible; and in my way towards Mr. Jarvie's, whose dinner hour was now approaching, I stopped at a small unpretending shop, the sign of which intimated the indweller to be Christopher Neilson, surgeon and apothecary. I requested of a little boy who was pounding some stuff in a mortar, that he would procure me an audience of this learned pharmacopolist. He opened the door of the back shop, where I found a lively elderly man, who shook his head incredulously at some idle account I gave him of having been wounded accidentally by the button breaking off my antagonist's foil while I was engaged in a fencing match. When he had applied some lint and somewhat else he thought proper to the trifling wound I had received, he observed--"There never was button on the foil that made this hurt. Ah! young blood! young blood!--But we surgeons are a secret generation--If it werena for hot blood and ill blood, what wad become of the twa learned faculties?" With which moral reflection he dismissed me; and I experienced very little pain or inconvenience afterwards from the scratch I had received. CHAPTER NINTH. An iron race the mountain-cliffs maintain, Foes to the gentler genius of the plain. ******* Who while their rocky ramparts round they see, The rough abode of want and liberty, As lawless force from confidence will grow, Insult the plenty of the vales below. Gray. "What made ye sae late?" said Mr. Jarvie, as I entered the dining-parlour of that honest gentleman; "it is chappit ane the best feek o' five minutes by-gane. Mattie has been twice at the door wi' the dinner, and weel for you it was a tup's head, for that canna suffer by delay. A sheep's head ower muckle boiled is rank poison, as my worthy father used to say--he likit the lug o' ane weel, honest man."