"Here we dismount," said Stuart; and alighting, they tied their bridles to the necks of two stone saints, whose weather-beaten heads had for six hundred years sustained the weight of a canopy over the gothic doorway. Before entering, Ronald gave a glance through a window, between the thick stone mullions of which he took a survey of the company. The gloomy old chapter-house was but indifferently lighted by a dozen yellow old commissariat candles stuck on the heads and hands of corbelled saints and angels, shedding a dull and uncertain light on the table, which was composed of a few rough boards nailed together. Around this rude contrivance sat about thirty officers in the Highland uniform, occupying the high-backed oaken chairs which erst were used by the holy fathers of San Juan, when assembled in solemn conclave. Ronald saw that nearly all his brother-officers were present, as few were on guard, and there was not one married man among them. The general equipage of the table was different from that of a home-service mess, and contrasted strongly with the rich uniforms of the carousers, who were drinking Spanish wine from horns, tin canteens, glasses, and all sorts of vessels fit for the purpose that could be procured. "_Corboeuf!_" exclaimed De Mesmai, "what a jovial song,—more merry than musical, though. I have a dozen minds to strike up the Marseillois hymn." "Stay,—hearken a moment." They were singing a well-known Scottish song,[*] and one which had become so popular at the mess, that it always followed the standing toast of "Here’s to the Highlandmen, shoulder to shoulder!" and was chorused in a most methodical manner. By the noisy accompaniments of glasses clanked upon the table, and heels upon the floor, it was evident the company were pretty mellow. Some of the windows being open for the admittance of cool air, the bold chorus, chanted by thirty voices, rolled out into the still night air, and echoed among the deserted streets: [*] "Donald Macdonald:" a song composed in 1803 by the Ettrick Shepherd, to the tune of "Wooed, and married, and a’." "Sword, and buckler, and a’, Buckler, and sword, and a’; For George we’ll encounter the devil, Wi’ sword, and buckler, and a’." Now Campbell’s loud sonorous voice, chanting alone, awoke the echoes of the place: "The Gordon is gude in a hurry; And Campbell is steel to the bane; And Grant, and Mackenzie, and Murray, And Cameron, will hurkle to nane. The Stuart is sturdy and wannel, And sae is Macleod and Mackay; And I, their gude brither, Macdonald, Sall never be last in the fray." "Chorus again, gentlemen,"—(and the thirty struck in): "Brogues, and brochan, and a’, Brochan, and brogues, and a’; And up wi’ the bonnie blue bonnet, The kilt, the feather, and a’."