And with that I hoisted up the Red Grant on my shoulders, carried him down the Infirmary Close, and hammered on the door till the young chirurgeon who kept the place, thinking me to be drunk, came to threaten me with the watch. Then, the bolts being drawn, I backed the Highlandman into the crack of the door and discharged him upon the floor. “There’s a heap of good college divinity,” I said. “The Regent sent me to bid ye find out if he be dead or alive.” So with no more said we got him on a board, and at the first jag of the lancet my Grant lad sat him up on end with a loup like a Jack-in-the-box. But when he saw where he was, and the poor bits of dead folk that the surgeon laddies had been learning on that day, he fetched a yell up from the soles of his Highland shoon, and bounced off the board, crying, “Ye’ll no cut me up as lang as Donald Grant’s a leeving man, whatever ye may do when he’s dead!” And so he took through the door as if the dogs had been after him. Then the blood-letting man was for charging me with the cost of his time, but I bade him apply to Regent Campbell over at the college, telling him that it was he who had sent me. But whether ever he did so or not I never heard. Now the rarest jest of the whole matter was on the morrow, when Quintin went to attend his prelection in Hall. The lesson, so he told me, was in the Latin of Essenius, his Compend, and Quintin was called up. After he had answered upon his portion, and well, as I presume, for Quintin was no dullard at his books, Dr. Campbell looked down a little queerly at him. “Can you tell me which is the sixth commandment?” says he. “Thou shalt not kill!” answers Quintin, as simple as supping brose. “Then, are you a murderer or no--this morning?” Quintin, thinking that, after the fashion of the time, the Regent meant some divinity quirk or puzzle, laid his brains asteep, and answered that as he had certainly “hated his brother,” in that sense he was doubtless, like all the rest of the human race, technically and theologically a murderer. “But,” said the Professor, “what of the Highland Grant lad that ye felled like a bullock yestreen under my window?” Now it had never struck me that I was like my brother Quintin in outward appearance, save in the way that all we black MacClellans are like one another--long in the nose, bushy in the eyebrows, which mostly reach over to meet one another. And I grant it that Quintin was ever better mettle for a lass’s eye than I--though not worth a pail of calf’s feed in the matter of making love as love ought to be made, which counts more with women than all fine appearings. But for the nonce let that fly stick to the wall; at any rate, sure it is that the Professor loon had taken me for Quintin.