On the night of the 11th, or rather the morning of the 12th of June, Ronald was awakened from sleep by an officer, who occupied the same billet, entering his chamber half dressed. "Rouse, Stuart," said he; "something strange has happened. There is a noise and bustle over the whole town." "I have heard nothing yet, Kennedy," answered the other, springing out of bed, and with military instinct donning his regimentals hastily in the dark. "You have aroused me from the most pleasant nap I have enjoyed for these six months past." "Hark! there go the pipes." "’Tis not the turn-out. What can be the matter? ’tis still two hours from day-break. We shall be roughing it again with D’Erlon or Drouet, I suppose." "The pipes have ceased," said Kennedy, throwing open the casement, where the voices of the musicians were heard engaged in a quarrel. "Plaw _the warning_, Hector Macfarlane, you very great sumph!" exclaimed Macdonuil-dhu, the piper-major, in great wrath. "Was it _Hoggil nam Bo_,—the pibroch of your ain mushroom name, I desired you to plaw?" "Oich, prut trut!" replied Macfarlane fiercely. "I do suppose tat ta lads o’ Lochsluai are as good and as pretty men, and bear as auld a name, as ony Macdonald o’ the Isles. Diaoul!" "Hoch, Got tam! it’s mutiny and repellion this! Did ye move yer hand to yer dirk, Macfarlane?" asked Macdonald furiously. "Did ye grip yer dirk to threaten me?" "It’s a far cry to Lochowe. Gin you and I strode there, ye would na cock your feather or craw sae crouse," said the other coolly. "It’s piper-matchor you are, and sorrow tak the hoor that Hector Macfarlane, the son of Rori-bheg, has to obey your orders!" The angry reply of the non-commissioned officer was lost in the sound of the war-pipe, the drones of which Macfarlane threw over his shoulder, and strode down the street swelling with Highland indignation, while he made Merida ring far and wide to the tune of _Johnnie Cope_, the warning for the march, while the drums, bugles, and trumpets of other regiments, horse and foot, were heard in various parts of the echoing city. "Holloa! Serjeant Macdonald, what is all this noise and uproar about?" asked Stuart. "I ken nae mair than an unporn pairn, sir," replied the leader of the pipers; "put it’s a tammed cauld morning to rouse puir chields frae their plankets. There is a soughing meeserable _Hanoverian_ wind plawing frae the east, sharp enough to skin our pare hoghs, and be tammed tilt! And that trunken loon, Macfarlane, has sae mony queghsfu’ under his belt, that he took the dorts, and in spite o’ a’ orders blew the pibroch o’ Lochsloy. A ponnie thing for him—the son o’ Roribheg, a riever, hanged at Crieff for _liftin’_, to speak in defiance at me!"