A long, low, and ill-proportioned gallery, hung with pictures, affirmed to be the portraits of kings, who, if they ever flourished at all, lived several hundred years before the invention of painting in oil colours, served as a sort of guard-chamber, or vestibule, to the apartments which the adventurous Charles Edward now occupied in the palace of his ancestors. Officers, both in the Highland and Lowland garb, passed and repassed in haste, or loitered in the hall, as if waiting for orders. Secretaries were engaged in making out passes, musters, and returns. All seemed busy, and earnestly intent upon something of importance; but Waverley was suffered to remain seated in the recess of a window, unnoticed by any one, in anxious reflection upon the crisis of his fate, which seemed now rapidly approaching.
CHAPTER XL
AN OLD AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE
While he was deep sunk in his reverie, the rustle of tartans was heard behind him, a friendly arm clasped his shoulders, and a friendly voice exclaimed,
'Said the Highland prophet sooth?—or must second-sight go for nothing?'
Waverley turned, and was warmly embraced by Fergus Mac-Ivor. 'A thousand welcomes to Holyrood, once more possessed by her legitimate sovereign! Did I not say we should prosper, and that you would fall into the hands of the Philistines if you parted from us?'
'Dear Fergus!' said Waverley, eagerly returning his greeting, 'it is long since I have heard a friend's voice. Where is Flora?'
'Safe, and a triumphant spectator of our success.'
'In this place?' said Waverley.