Our Antiquary, his head wrapped warm in two double night-caps, was quietly enjoying his repose, when it was suddenly broken by the screams of his sister, his niece, and two maid-servants.
"What the devil is the matter?" said he, starting up in his bed— "womankind in my room at this hour of night!—are ye all mad?"
"The beacon, uncle!" said Miss M'Intyre.
"The French coming to murder us!" screamed Miss Griselda.
"The beacon! the beacon!—the French! the French!—murder! murder! and waur than murder!"—cried the two handmaidens, like the chorus of an opera.
"The French?" said Oldbuck, starting up—"get out of the room, womankind that you are, till I get my things on—And hark ye, bring me my sword."
"Whilk o' them, Monkbarns?" cried his sister, offering a Roman falchion of brass with the one hand, and with the other an Andrea Ferrara without a handle.
"The langest, the langest," cried Jenny Rintherout, dragging in a two-handed sword of the twelfth century.