"Blessed be the Lord! these times and things have passed away from the land, to return to it no more. We are both old men now; by your own reckoning, you must at least have numbered four-score years, and in that, you are by twenty my better man. You are my guest to-night, moreover, so we must not quarrel, comrade. My father was killed at Culloden." "On which side?" "The right one--for he fell by the side of old Keppoch, and his last words were, 'Righ Hamish gu Bragh!'" "Fire and smoke!" laughed the old fellow, "I remember these things as if they only happened yesterday--mix me some more grog and put it in the bill--I was the company's butcher in those days--it suited my taste--so when I was not stabbing and slashing the sheep and cattle of the rascally commissary, I was cutting the throats of the Scots and French, for there were plenty of them, and Irish too, who fought against the king's troops in Flanders. We had hot work, that day at Culloden--hotter than at Minden, where we fought in heavy marching order, with our blankets, kettles, and provisions, on a broiling noon, when the battle-field was cracking under a blazing sun, and the whole country was sweltering like the oven of the Great Baker." "Who is he?" "What! you don't know him? Ha! ha! ha! Ho! ho! ho! come, that is good." Ewen expostulated with the boisterous old fellow on this style of conversation, which, as you may easily conceive, was very revolting to the prejudices of a well-regulated Cameronian soldier. "Come, come, you old devilskin," cried the other, stirring up the fire with his wooden leg, till the sparks flashed and gleamed like his solitary eye; "you may as well sing psalms to a dead horse, as preach to me. Hark how the thunder roars, like the great guns at Carthagena! More grog--put it in the bill--or, halt, d--me! pay yourself," and he dashed on the table a handful of silver of the reigns of George II., and the Glencoe assassin, William of Orange. He obtained more whiskey, and drank it raw, seasoning it from time to time with gunpowder, just as an Arab does his cold water with ginger. "Where did you lose your eye, comrade?" "At Culloden; but I found the fellow who pinked me, next day, as he lay bleeding on the field; he was a Cameron, in a green velvet jacket, all covered with silver; so I stripped off his lace, as I had seen my mother do, and then I brained him with the butt-end of brown-bess--and before his wife's eyes, too! What the deuce do you growl at, comrade? Such things will happen in war, and you know that orders must be obeyed. My eye was gone--but it was the left one, and I was saved the trouble of closing it when taking aim. This slash on the sconce I got at the battle of Preston Pans, from the Celt who slew Colonel Gardiner." "That Celt was my father--the Miller of Invernahyle," said Meinie, proudly.