being in a kind of red jacket, seated on the extreme verge of the precipice, which I have already made a faint attempt to describe. Wondering who it could be, I shouted; but it took not the slightest notice, remaining as immovable as the rock on which it sat. “I should never have thought of going near that edge,” said I to myself; “however, as you have done it, why should not I? And I should like to know who you are.” So I commenced the descent of the rock, but with great care, for I had as yet never been in a situation so dangerous; a slight moisture exuded from the palms of my hands, my nerves were tingling, and my brain was somewhat dizzy—and now I had arrived within a few yards of the figure, and had recognised it: it was the wild drummer who had turned the tide of battle in the bicker on the Castle Brae. A small stone which I dislodged now rolled down the rock, and tumbled into the abyss close beside him. He turned his head, and after looking at me for a moment somewhat vacantly, he resumed his former attitude. I drew yet nearer to the horrible edge; not close, however, for fear was on me.
“What are you thinking of, David?” said I, as I sat behind him and trembled, for I repeat that I was afraid.
David Haggart. I was thinking of Willie Wallace.
Myself. You had better be thinking of yourself, man. A strange place this to come to and think of William Wallace.
David Haggart. Why so? Is not his tower just beneath our feet?
Myself. You mean the auld ruin by the side of
the Nor Loch—the ugly stane bulk, from the foot of which flows the spring into the dyke, where the watercresses grow?
David Haggart. Just sae, Geordie.
Myself. And why were ye thinking of him? The English hanged him long since, as I have heard say.
David Haggart. I was thinking that I should wish to be like him.