"What is your name—your rank?" asked Rob, kindly.
"I am Don José de Santarem, a Knight of Malta."
"A relation of the Spanish colonel?"
"I am his brother; but Alonzo has left me to my fate."
"Upbraid him not," said Rob; "he has been sorely pressed by the men of Culcairn and Morar Chattu, and is far down the glen by this time."
Had Rob said that he was "sorely pressed by the Medes and Persians," it would have been quite as intelligible to the Spaniard, who said,—"Senor Escosse, could you get me a priest?"
"A priest!" reiterated Rob, with perplexity.
"That I may confess me before I die."
MacGregor shook his head. "The priests are all banished or in their graves," said he; "the faith of our forefathers is proscribed here now—even as the Clan Alpine are proscribed by the Parliament and paper courts of the Lowlanders."
"No priests?" sighed the Spaniard, with a start.