“Voto A DIOS! as the Spaniard says,” exclaimed the Major, “and some beggarly gilly may get it while I stand prating here!”

The prospect of booty having at once driven out of his head both Gustavus and the provant, he set spurs to Loyalty’s Reward, and rode off through the field of battle.

“There goes the hound,” said Menteith, “breaking the face, and trampling on the body, of many a better man than himself; and as eager on his sordid spoil as a vulture that stoops upon carrion.  Yet this man the world calls a soldier—­and you, my lord, select him as worthy of the honours of chivalry, if such they can at this day be termed.  You have made the collar of knighthood the decoration of a mere bloodhound.”

“What could I do?” said Montrose.  “I had no half-picked bones to give him, and bribed in some manner he must be,—­I cannot follow the chase alone.  Besides, the dog has good qualities.”

“If nature has given him such,” said Menteith, “habit has converted them into feelings of intense selfishness.  He may be punctilious concerning his reputation, and brave in the execution of his duty, but it is only because without these qualities he cannot rise in the service;—­nay, his very benevolence is selfish; he may defend his companion while he can keep his feet, but the instant he is down, Sir Dugald will be as ready to ease him of his purse, as he is to convert the skin of Gustavus into a buff jerkin.”

“And yet, if all this were true, cousin,” answered Montrose, “there is something convenient in commanding a soldier, upon whose motives and springs of action you can calculate to a mathematical certainty.  A fine spirit like yours, my cousin, alive to a thousand sensations to which this man’s is as impervious as his corslet,—­it is for such that thy friend must feel, while he gives his advice.”  Then, suddenly changing his tone, he asked Menteith when he had seen Annot Lyle.

The young Earl coloured deeply, and answered, “Not since last evening,—­excepting,” he added, with hesitation, “for one moment, about half an hour before the battle began.”

“My dear Menteith,” said Montrose, very kindly, “were you one of the gay cavaliers of Whitehall, who are, in their way, as great self-seekers as our friend Dalgetty, should I need to plague you with enquiring into such an amourette as this? it would be an intrigue only to be laughed at.  But this is the land of enchantment, where nets strong as steel are wrought out of ladies’ tresses, and you are exactly the destined knight to be so fettered.  This poor girl is exquisitely beautiful, and has talents formed to captivate your romantic temper.  You cannot think of injuring her—­you cannot think of marrying her?”

“My lord,” replied Menteith, “you have repeatedly urged this jest, for so I trust it is meant, somewhat beyond bounds.  Annot Lyle is of unknown birth,—­a captive,—­the daughter, probably, of some obscure outlaw; a dependant on the hospitality of the M’Aulays.”