At the gorge of the bridge I could perceive a Highland soldier standing perfectly motionless, resting on his musket, and apparently gazing straight before him, into the obscurity which veiled the army of Tilly. His powerful form had the aspect of a dusky statue. I could perceive his plaid waving at times; he was whistling a monotonous pibroch as we crept softly towards him; then he chanted a song; and doubtless the thoughts of home it raised within him, turned his eyes and heart back—as it were, back upon himself—and prevented him from observing the group of Croats, who approached him so stealthily, with their carbines cocked, under the shadow of the Dutch willows that fringed the narrow pathway. I have said the whole place was still as death; thus the clear, manly voice of the clansman as he sung "Failirin, ilirin, iulirin O," was distinctly heard. That old Highland air is so sad and slow, that it moved my heart within me, even amid the fierce impulses of that most critical hour.
"Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on its shore,
Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore;
Not so white is the snow on the mountain or dale,
Or the wild-rose that blooms on the bough in the vale.
As the clouds' golden wreath, on Ben Lomond's high brow,
The locks of my loved one luxuriantly flow;
And her cheek has the tint our wild-roses display,
When they blush in the bloom of a morning in May."
"Dreghorn," I whispered, "that is Gillian M'Bane, one of my own company—a Strathdee man! My God! what shall I do?"
"Let us baith set up a yowl, sir."
We still crept forward, and after a pause Gillian sang another verse of that tender old love-song; while my heart beat quicker, and my breath became more and more contracted.
"Like thy star oh, Ul-lochlin! that beams o'er the grove,
Are the slow-rolling eyes of the maid that I love;
High bosom'd, her girdle diffuses the light
Of the moon, when she beams on the ocean at night.
The lark and the linnet, they welcome the morn,
In a chorus of joy from yon time-gnarled thorn;
But the linnet and lark pour their chorus in vain,
When the maid that I love sings her sweet Highland strain."*
* Translation from the original Gaëlic, by Dominie Daidle.
Suddenly he perceived something, and, pausing again in his song, blew the match of his musket, and cried in his native Gaëlic—
"Stand!—who comes here?"
Bandolo raised his pistols and blew the matches; then a sound followed, as the Croats, who crept like snakes along the ground, imitated his example.