Then the wide ravine that yawned between the southern hill of the Modern Athens and the giant ridge of Auld Reikie, her mither-toun, was an impassable gulf. Now the waters have disappeared, but the tide of life ebbs and flows in their place. A stupendous mound and a lordly bridge now cross that hollow glen where the fountain welled which David, "by consent of his earls and bishops," gifted to God and the Holy Cross, and where the queen of Robert III. held her brilliant tournaments; and now, the red gleam of the furnace, the hiss of the steam-engine, the clink of hammers, the hum of voices, and the roar of the railway train rise up from its depth to scare the woodcock, the snipe, and the wild coof, who come as of old to seek the bed where for ages the water lay.
Once only did Roland pause in his perilous descent, to assure himself that he was not seen. Dislodged by his foot, a stone gave way, and as it bounded from the rocks he heard it plash into the loch, far, far down below. There, by its margin, stood Forrester and Lintstock listening intently, and glancing silently at each other from time to time; for, brave and adventurous though the age might be, there were bounds, even in warlike Scotland, to hardihood and adventure.
"If he should be afraid to descend!" said Sir John.
"Afraid?" retorted Lintstock; "I have kent him, Sir John Forrester, since he was a bairn that couldna' blaw his ain nose, and never saw fear in his face yet.—There he comes," added the old cannonier, as the stone we have just mentioned rolled over their heads and fell into the calm loch, forming a hundred circles on its dark bosom; "there he comes—there he comes!" continued the veteran, whose solitary eye moistened with a tear as he uttered a fervent supplication to "Sancta Barbara, the virgin and martyr, patroness of all bold cannoniers and artillery" (according to the military superstition of the age), to protect his master.
In a few minutes more, both Roland and Sabrino were seen descending the dangerous path. Lintstock uttered a cry of satisfaction.
"Courage!" said Forrester, placing his hand at the side of his mouth, lest the guard at the tower might overhear, and fire on them.
In another moment Roland, breathless with his exertions, was beside them, and in the arms of his old servant, who swore and wept with joy.
His hair and beard were so disordered, that Forrester could scarcely recognise him.
"My dear friend," said Roland, sadly, "if the thanks of one to whom life is valueless are worth accepting, take them from me a thousand times, and a thousand more. Believe me, I am almost mad—I know not what I do, or what I say, or whether my words are incoherent as my thoughts."
He was frightfully pale and haggard.