“It is always my custom to do so, learned sir,” answered Dalgetty; “for in the service of the immortal Gustavus—­but I detain you from your meditations,”—­his desire to speak of the King of Sweden being for once overpowered by the necessity of his circumstances.

“By no means, my worthy sir,” said the clergyman.  “What was, I pray you, the order of that great Prince, whose memory is so dear to every Protestant bosom?”

“Sir, the drums beat to prayers morning and evening, as regularly as for parade; and if a soldier passed without saluting the chaplain, he had an hour’s ride on the wooden mare for his pains.  Sir, I wish you a very good evening—­I am obliged to depart the castle under M’Callum More’s passport.”

“Stay one instant, sir,” said the preacher; “is there nothing I can do to testify my respect for the pupil of the great Gustavus, and so admirable a judge of preaching?”

“Nothing, sir,” said the Captain, “but to shew me the nearest way to the gate—­and if you would have the kindness,” he added, with great effrontery, “to let a servant bring my horse with him, the dark grey gelding—­call him Gustavus, and he will prick up his ears—­for I know not where the castle-stables are situated, and my guide,” he added, looking at Ranald, “speaks no English.”

“I hasten to accommodate you,” said the clergyman; “your way lies through that cloistered passage.”

“Now, Heaven’s blessing upon your vanity!” said the Captain to himself.  “I was afraid I would have had to march off without Gustavus.”

In fact, so effectually did the chaplain exert himself in behalf of so excellent a judge of composition, that while Dalgetty was parleying with the sentinels at the drawbridge, showing his passport, and giving the watchword, a servant brought him his horse, ready saddled for the journey.  In another place, the Captain’s sudden appearance at large after having been publicly sent to prison, might have excited suspicion and enquiry; but the officers and domestics of the Marquis were accustomed to the mysterious policy of their master, and never supposed aught else than that he had been liberated and intrusted with some private commission by their master.  In this belief, and having received the parole, they gave him free passage.

Dalgetty rode slowly through the town of Inverary, the outlaw attending upon him like a foot-page at his horse’s shoulder.  As they passed the gibbet, the old man looked on the bodies and wrung his hands.  The look and gesture was momentary, but expressive of indescribable anguish.  Instantly recovering himself, Ranald, in passing, whispered somewhat to one of the females, who, like Rizpah the daughter of Aiah, seemed engaged in watching and mourning the victims of feudal injustice and cruelty.  The woman started at his voice, but immediately collected herself and returned for answer a slight inclination of the head.