James of the Needle was a man of his word when whisky was no party to the contract; and upon this occasion Callum Beg, who still thought himself in Waverley’s debt, since he had declined accepting compensation at the expense of mine host of the Candlestick’s person, took the opportunity of discharging the obligation, by mounting guard over the hereditary tailor of Sliochd nan Ivor; and, as he expressed himself, “targed him tightly” till the finishing of the job. To rid himself of this restraint, Shemus’s needle flew through the tartan like lightning; and as the artist kept chanting some dreadful skirmish of Fin Macoul, he accomplished at least three stitches to the death of every hero. The dress was, therefore, soon ready, for the short coat fitted the wearer, and the rest of the apparel required little adjustment. Our hero having now fairly assumed the “garb of old Gaul,” well calculated as it was to give an appearance of strength to a figure which, though tall and well-made, was rather elegant than robust, I hope my fair readers will excuse him if he looked at himself in the mirror more than once, and could not help acknowledging that the reflection seemed that of a very handsome young fellow. In fact, there was no disguising it. His light-brown hair—for he wore no periwig, notwithstanding the universal fashion of the time—became the bonnet which surmounted it. His person promised firmness and agility, to which the ample folds of the tartan added an air of dignity. His blue eye seemed of that kind, Which melted in love, and which kindled in war; and an air of bashfulness, which was in reality the effect of want of habitual intercourse with the world, gave interest to his features, without injuring their grace or intelligence. “He’s a pratty man, a very pratty man,” said Evan Dhu (now Ensign Maccombich) to Fergus’s buxom landlady. “He’s vera weel,” said the Widow Flockhart, “but no naething sae weel-far’d as your colonel, ensign.” “I was na comparing them,” quoth Evan, “nor was I speaking about his being weel-favoured; but only that Mr. Waverley looks clean-made and _deliver_, and like a proper lad o’ his quarters, that will not cry barley in a brulzie. And, indeed, he’s gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target. I hae played wi’ him mysell at Glennaquoich, and sae has Vich Ian Vohr, often of a Sunday afternoon.” “Lord forgie ye, Ensign Maccombich,” said the alarmed Presbyterian; “I’m sure the colonel wad never do the like o’ that!” “Hout! hout! Mrs. Flockhart,” replied the ensign, “we’re young blude, ye ken; and young saints, auld deils.” “But will ye fight wi’ Sir John Cope the morn, Ensign Maccombich?” demanded Mrs. Flockhart of her guest. “Troth I’se ensure him, an he’ll bide us, Mrs. Flockhart,” replied the Gael. “And will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, Ensign Maccombich?” again inquired the landlady. “Claw for claw, as Conan said to Satan, Mrs. Flockhart, and the deevil tak the shortest nails.”