"It may be all vera true," said he, turning himself, apparently with great pain, on his back; "it may be vera true--but noo, sin' I am persuaded that I dinna dream, let me gather the sma' wits God has gi'en me weel about me. Let me see--let me see--we all ken the service we were ordered on this blessed morning--nane better than Saunders Skelp--what am I dreaming o'? Jack Lennox, I mean--gude hae a care o' us, my harns[1] are strangely confused." Then, after a pause, during which he appeared to be exerting himself to call in his scattered thoughts--"Weel a-weel, ye a' ken wha focht, and wha sang sma, and mony a stalwart blow was struck--_that_ I ken--and sickly as I was, it behoved me, the son o' auld Pate Skelp of Lincomdodie, to do my _devoir_, as Sir Walter says, and to it I buckled; but I shall believe in second sicht or any other miracle noo, for we drave a' obstruction before us like chaff, until we encountered wi' that wee wudden goddity; when, to stop our advance (I saw it as plain as peas), the creature whirled aff its perch, and flew crack against the midriff of me, Saunders, like a stane frae a _testudo_--Hoot, no, of Jack Lennox, I mean." [1] Brains. "My good friend," said I, "you must be very ill--compose yourself." Then aside to one of the men, "Are you sure Lennox is not tipsy?" The poor fellow overheard me. "Tipsy! me foo!" and he lay back and drew a long breath like a porpoise. He immediately continued--"Ay, and I believe I am foo after all--but wha may ye be that taunts me thereanent sae unceremoniously, and me mair than half dead? It was na _yeer_ siller that slokened me, I'se warrant, if foo I am--Foo!--sma' manners have ye to taunt a puir chiel like me with being foo--my certie, whisky maun hae been plentier than gentlemen among us the day; or foo I neer wad hae been--Foo!" I was now much interested about the poor fellow, and as I incommoded the wounded man who lay in the cot next him to port, I moved round to the other side, and again addressed our eccentric friend. "Now, my good man," said I, "I don't want to teaze you; but as the doctor says he has great doubts of you, I again ask you if I can do any thing for you; have you any bequest to leave?" "I say, freen'," rapped out the poor fellow, "the doctor may go be damned,"--this was certainly very plain, if not very complimentary;--"and it will not break my heart if ye're no that far ahint him. But I shall live to dance at his _dregy_[2] yet. What can he say to a man like me? But you, sir, it was you that accused me of getting drunk--and drunk I may be after all, for my head sooms most awfu'." [2] Dirge--burial. The poor creature's mind was now utterly a wool-gathering. Presently he called out, "I say, my lad, what are you abusing that brute beast for? Haud aff the dog, sir--that's the beast that wanted to worry Mr Brail; but never mind, dinna massacre him, noo since you have ta'en him--never abuse a prisoner."