Waverley; or, 'Tis sixty years since — Volume 2Scott, Walter
History
Waverley; or, 'Tis sixty years since — Volume 2
Scott, Walter
Historical fiction; Jacobite Rebellion, 1745-1746 -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
'Yes; have you been so long at Glennaquoich, and never heard of
the Grey Spectre? though indeed there is a certain reluctance
among us to mention him.'
'No, never.'
'Ah! it would have been a tale for poor Flora to have told you.
Or, if that hill were Benmore, and that long blue lake, which you
see just winding towards yon mountainous country, were Loch Tay,
or my own Loch an Ri, the tale would be better suited with
scenery. However, let us sit down on this knoll; even Saddleback
and Ulswater will suit what I have to say better than the English
hedgerows, enclosures, and farmhouses. You must know, then, that
when my ancestor, Ian nan Chaistel, wasted Northumberland, there
was associated with him in the expedition a sort of Southland
Chief, or captain of a band of Lowlanders, called Halbert Hall. In
their return through the Cheviots they quarrelled about the
division of the great booty they had acquired, and came from words
to blows. The Lowlanders were cut off to a man, and their chief
fell the last, covered with wounds by the sword of my ancestor.
Since that time his spirit has crossed the Vich Ian Vohr of the
day when any great disaster was impending, but especially before
approaching death. My father saw him twice, once before he was
made prisoner at Sheriff-Muir, another time on the morning of the
day on which he died.'
'How can you, my dear Fergus, tell such nonsense with a grave
face?'
' I do not ask you to believe it; but I tell you the truth,
ascertained by three hundred years' experience at least, and last
night by my own eyes.'
'The particulars, for heaven's sake!' said Waverley, with
eagerness.
'I will, on condition you will not attempt a jest on the subject.
Since this unhappy retreat commenced I have scarce ever been able
to sleep for thinking of my clan, and of this poor Prince, whom
they are leading back like a dog in a string, whether he will or
no, and of the downfall of my family. Last night I felt so
feverish that I left my quarters and walked out, in hopes the keen
frosty air would brace my nerves--I cannot tell how much I dislike
going on, for I know you will hardly believe me. However--I
crossed a small footbridge, and kept walking backwards and
forwards, when I observed with surprise by the clear moonlight a
tall figure in a grey plaid, such as shepherds wear in the south
of Scotland, which, move at what pace I would, kept regularly
about four yards before me.'
'You saw a Cumberland peasant in his ordinary dress, probably.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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