Since his arrival in the capital, Ronald had received many letters from home, but none from Alice Lisle; he was deterred from writing to her, fearing that his letters might fall into other hands than her own, and he grew sad as the day of embarkation drew near and he heard not from the fair girl, whose little miniature afforded him a pleasing object for contemplation in his melancholy moods. On the morning after the arrival of the route, Ronald was awakened from sleep about day-break by the sound of the bagpipe, which in his dreaming ear carried him home: he almost fancied himself at Lochisla, and that old Iverach was piping to the morning sun, when other sounds caused him to start. He sprang up, and looked from the lofty old window into the gloomy court of the castle. Ronald Macdonuil-dhu, the piper, was blowing forth the regimental gathering, the wild notes of which were startling the echoes of the ancient fortress and rousing the soldiers, who were thronging forth in heavy marching order, as the military term is,—completely accoutred. "Come, Stuart, my boy, turn up!" cried Alister Macdonald, a brother ensign, who entered the room unceremoniously, "you will be late; we march in ten minutes, and then good-by to the crowded ball-rooms and fair girls of Edinburgh." "I had no idea the morning was so far advanced," replied Ronald, dressing himself as fast as possible. "There goes the roll of the drum now; why—they are falling in." "The deuce! I must go, or our hot-headed commander, the major, may forget that I am a kinsman from the Isle of the Mist. This morning he is as cross as a bear with a sore head, and expends his ill-humour on the acting adjutant, who in turn expends his on the men. There is the sound of Black Ronald’s pipe again; I must be off," and he left the apartment. "Come, Evan, bustle about, and get me harnessed! Push this belt under my epaulette, bring me my sword and bonnet; be quick, will you?" cried Ronald to his follower, who, accoutred for the march with his heavy knapsack on his back, entered the room. "You will look after the baggage. Where are the trunks, and other _et cætera_?" "A’ on the road to Leith twa hoors syne." "What, in the dark?" "Ay, maister, just in the dark. Three muckle carts, piled like towers, wi’ kists and wives an’ weans on the tap, an’ pans and camp-kettles jingling frae ilka neuk and corner,—an’ unco like flitten’ as ever I saw."