Poor Walter! That hour laid the foundation of the airy palace of love, glory, and renown, which every ardent young man builds unto himself, and which indeed is the only fabric that costs nothing but the bitter achings of a seared and disappointed heart. To Walter it was the dawn of joy; his foot, he thought, was now firmly planted on the first step of the dangerous ladder of honour; and with his thoughts divided between war, ambition, and Lilian Napier, and with his heart glowing with exultation, he pulled forth the little scrap of parchment to re-examine it again and again, as he skipped down the crowded street, and a severe concussion against a tower of the Netherbow first roused him from his dreams. He was in excellent humour with himself, pleased with everybody, and enraptured with the Lords of Council, whose orders he was ready to obey in everything, whether they were to storm a tower or fire a clachan, march to England, or duck an "auld wife" in the North Loch. "My stars are propitious to me to-day," said he aloud, as he half-danced down the street towards the White Horse Cellar. "O, may Heaven give me but opportunities to win a name; and if the most unflinching perseverance--the most spotless loyalty--and a headlong valour, such as not even Claver'se can surpass, will bring me honour and renown, I feel that I _shall_ win _them_. O Bravo for the roll of the drum! the rush of the charging horse! and the ranks of pikemen shoulder to shoulder! I am one of the Guards of St. Louis--King James's Scottish Musqueteers--the old _Diehards_ of Dunbarton." END OF VOL. I. LONDON: PRINTED BY HARRISON AND SON, ST. MARTIN'S LANE.