'Through the Braes of Lochaber
A desert were made,
And Glen Roy should be lost
To the plough and the spade;
Though the bones of my kindred,
Unhonoured, unurned,
Marked the desolate path
Where the Campbells have burned.—
Be it so! from that foray they never returned!' &c.
[*] See Turner's Collection.
So intent were we on the song—so much had it absorbed our faculties and fixed our hearts and eyes, that we had not heard the challenge of Donald Roy, who was stationed as a sentinel near the road; nor until its conclusion did we perceive that a stranger had joined us, and was standing propped upon a long and knotty staff, surveying us with eyes of wonder, and with an interest that was not unfriendly, for a smile lighted all his features as I rose to greet him. on recognising the wandering Moolah Moustapha, whom I had met at the Khan in Heraclea, and who had officiated on the morning when the Greek Lieutenant, Constantine Vidimo, was shot.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE VISION OF CORPORAL MOUSTAPHA.
He accorded to us the usual greeting, and contrary to the use and wont of ignorant Dervishes and Moolahs, who dislike soldiers in general and infidels in particular, he seated himself by our fire and partook at once of some bread and meat which were offered him by Callum, but shook his averted head when the leathern flasks of wine and potent raki were held towards him by Sergeant Mac Ildhui.
'Nay, nay,' said he, 'wine and gaming are alike forbidden by the Koran—yet there was a time when I was daily and nightly addicted to both.'
'And when did you reform, reverend Moolah?' I asked.
'When I ceased to be a soldier,' he answered with a quiet smile.
'A soldier!' I reiterated; 'have you then been one of ourselves?'