“Ay, laddie; it was a kind of broth, or brose—ambrose, they called it, but I dinna believe a word of it. Ambrose, they ca’ed it! But how could they get hahm or brose up in the clouds? A’m thinking that the heathen gods didn’t eat at all, but sippit and suppit the stuff they got from the top of a mountain somewhere out in those pairts—I’ve read it all, laddies, in an auld book called Pantheon—mixed with dew, mountain-dew.”
“Nonsense!” cried Fitz, breaking into a pleasant laugh.
“Nay, it’s no nonsense, laddie. I’ve got it all down, prented in a book. Ambrosia, the chiel ca’ed it, because he didn’t know how to spell, and when I came to thenk I see it all as plain as the nose on your face. It was not ambrose at all, but Athol brose.”
“And what’s that?” cried Fitz.
“Hech, mon! And ye a young laird and officer and dinna ken what Athol brose is!”
“No,” said Fitz; “we learnt so much Greek and Latin at my school that we had to leave out the Scotch.”
“Hearken to him, young Poole Reed! Not to know that! But it is Greek—about the Greek gods and goddesses. And ye dinna ken what Athol brose is?”
“No,” said Fitz; “I never heard of it in my life.”
“Weel, then, I’ll just tell ye, though it’s nae good for boys. It’s joost a meexture half honey and half whisky, or mountain-dew; and noo ye ken.”
“But you are not going to make a mess like that when you get a sheep.”