"No—the Cateran, as you call him. As for the devil, he, poor fellow, is very much maligned on earth, I assure you."
"'Twas only a dab with a dirk I gave the Cateran, and he gave me another."
"A dab—a severe wound?"
"Bah! I would let any honest man do as much to me, for a good dram, any day; like true Highlanders, we parted after the first blood drawn."
The dark man gave one of his ferocious grins, as he said,
"You parted—true; but how fared it with your assailant?"
"He was lodged by the meddling provost and bailies in the bottle dungeon in the middle arch of Inverness Bridge."
"Yes—confined there, with nothing between him and the rain and wind of heaven but an iron grating—a narrow hatch of steel ribs, over which the wayfarers tread, and there he is yet."*
* This oubliette perished with the old Bridge of Inverness.
"All this is the provost's fault, not mine. We march by daybreak," said the sergeant, who had imbibed a strange mistrust and fear of this nocturnal visitor; "whither go you?"