thy footstep—­yet tarry an instant and hear my last charge.  Remember the fate of our race, and quit not the ancient manners of the Children of the Mist.  We are now a straggling handful, driven from every vale by the sword of every clan, who rule in the possessions where their forefathers hewed the wood, and drew the water for ours.  But in the thicket of the wilderness, and in the mist of the mountain, Kenneth, son of Eracht, keep thou unsoiled the freedom which I leave thee as a birthright.  Barter it not neither for the rich garment, nor for the stone-roof, nor for the covered board, nor for the couch of down—­on the rock or in the valley, in abundance or in famine—­in the leafy summer, and in the days of the iron winter—­Son of the Mist! be free as thy forefathers.  Own no lord—­receive no law—­take no hire—­give no stipend—­build no hut—­enclose no pasture—­sow no grain;—­let the deer of the mountain be thy flocks and herds—­if these fail thee, prey upon the goods of our oppressors—­of the Saxons, and of such Gael as are Saxons in their souls, valuing herds and flocks more than honour and freedom.  Well for us that they do so—­it affords the broader scope for our revenge.  Remember those who have done kindness to our race, and pay their services with thy blood, should the hour require it.  If a MacIan shall come to thee with the head of the king’s son in his hand, shelter him, though the avenging army of the father were behind him; for in Glencoe and Ardnamurchan, we have dwelt in peace in the years that have gone by.  The sons of Diarmid—­the race of Darnlinvarach—­the riders of Menteith—­my curse on thy head, Child of the Mist, if thou spare one of those names, when the time shall offer for cutting them off! and it will come anon, for their own swords shall devour each other, and those who are scattered shall fly to the Mist, and perish by its Children.  Once more, begone—­shake the dust from thy feet against the habitations of men, whether banded together for peace or for war.  Farewell, beloved! and mayst thou die like thy forefathers, ere infirmity, disease, or age, shall break thy spirit—­Begone!—­begone!—­live free—­requite kindness—­avenge the injuries of thy race!”

The young savage stooped, and kissed the brow of his dying parent; but accustomed from infancy to suppress every exterior sign of emotion, he parted without tear or adieu, and was soon far beyond the limits of Montrose’s camp.

Sir Dugald Dalgetty, who was present during the latter part of this scene, was very little edified by the conduct of MacEagh upon the occasion.  “I cannot think, my friend Ranald,” said he, “that you are in the best possible road for a dying man.  Storms, onslaughts, massacres, the burning of suburbs, are indeed a soldier’s daily work, and are justified by the necessity of the case, seeing that they are done in the course of duty; for burning of suburbs, in particular, it may be said that they are traitors and cut-throats to all fortified towns.  Hence