I shall not attempt to describe the scene of our parting with the worthy schoolmaster. It threw a gloom over us all. As for the good man himself, his voice trembled—his lip quivered—and his eyes filled with moisture, when he pronounced that most unpleasant of all words—farewell—and gave us the last cordial shake of the hand, pouring out his best wishes and blessings upon us. He then put his stick firmly to the ground, as if to help his failing resolution, and, as he took his way over the hill, he turned and waved—and turned and waved, twenty times at least, e’er he disappeared from our sight.
Our attention was now directed towards Serjeant Archy Stewart, who was cheerfully occupying himself in shouldering a portion of our necessaries. He was a veteran of about sixty years of age, of middle size, and of a hardy, wiry, though not very robust frame. His fresh coloured countenance was lighted up by a pair of small, grey, and very intelligent eyes; and its bold forehead, aquiline nose, high cheek-bones, and prominent chin and lips, exhibited traits of a very undaunted and indomitable resolution, which his whole appearance showed had been well tried by hardships. All this, however, was tempered and sweetened with so perfect an expression of courtesy and good humour, pervading every line of his weather-beaten features, that he instantly gained the golden opinions of our party. After adjusting the wallet to his back, he pointed his hazel stick to the grass, and led the way before us with an activity much beyond his years.
Clifford.—Capital fishing hereabouts, no doubt, Mr. Stewart?
Serjeant.—Just grand, sir—no better in this, or any other country side.
Clifford.—You know the river well, I suppose?
Serjeant.—Few should know it better, sir—for I’ve known it ever since I could look out over the nest.
Clifford.—You are a native of these mountains, then?—Come! we have been told that you are full of their legendary lore, and we look to have much of it out of you ere we part.
Serjeant.—I am sure your honor is welcome to as much as you can take and I can give you.
Clifford.—Come away then—you shall begin, if you please, by giving us your own history.
Serjeant.—Oh troth, sir, my history is little worth; but, such as it is, you shall have it. I was born in this very glen here—for I am come of the Clan-Allan Stewarts, who were the offspring of Sir Allan Stewart, who was said to have been a natural son of the Yearl of Moray.