“That,” said he, “must be the alarm—­the storm-clock, as the Germans call it.”

“It strikes the hour of your death,” answered Ranald, “unless you can accompany me a little farther.  For every toll of that bell a brave man has yielded up his soul.”

“Truly, Ranald, my trusty friend,” said Dalgetty, “I will not deny that the case may be soon my own; for I am so forfoughen (being, as I explained to you, IMPEDITUS, for had I been EXPEDITUS, I mind not pedestrian exercise the flourish of a fife), that I think I had better ensconce myself in one of these bushes, and even lie quiet there to abide what fortune God shall send me.  I entreat you, mine honest friend Ranald, to shift for yourself, and leave me to my fortune, as the Lion of the North, the immortal Gustavus Adolphus, my never-to-be-forgotten master (whom you must surely have heard of, Ranald, though you may have heard of no one else), said to Francis Albert, Duke of Saxe-Lauenburgh, when he was mortally wounded on the plains of Lutzen.  Neither despair altogether of my safety, Ranald, seeing I have been in as great pinches as this in Germany—­more especially, I remember me, that at the fatal battle of Nerlingen—­after which I changed service—­”

“If you would save your father’s son’s breath to help his child out of trouble, instead of wasting it upon the tales of Seannachies,” said Ranald, who now grew impatient of the Captain’s loquacity, “or if your feet could travel as fast as your tongue, you might yet lay your head on an unbloody pillow to-night.”

“Something there is like military skill in that,” replied the Captain, “although wantonly and irreverently spoken to an officer of rank.  But I hold it good to pardon such freedoms on a march, in respect of the Saturnalian license indulged in such cases to the troops of all nations.  And now, resume thine office, friend Ranald, in respect I am well-breathed; or, to be more plain, I PRAE, SEQUAR, as we used to say at Mareschal-College.”

Comprehending his meaning rather from his motions than his language, the Son of the Mist again led the way, with an unerring precision that looked like instinct, through a variety of ground the most difficult and broken that could well be imagined.  Dragging along his ponderous boots, encumbered with thigh-pieces, gauntlets, corslet, and back-piece, not to mention the buff jerkin which he wore under all these arms, talking of his former exploits the whole way, though Ranald paid not the slightest attention to him, Captain Dalgetty contrived to follow his guide a considerable space farther, when the deep-mouthed baying of a hound was heard coming down the wind, as if opening on the scent of its prey.

“Black hound,” said Ranald, “whose throat never boded good to a Child of the Mist, ill fortune to her who littered thee! hast thou already found our trace?  But thou art too late, swart hound of darkness, and the deer has gained the herd.”