it is plain, that a soldier is a profession peculiarly favoured by Heaven, seeing that we may hope for salvation, although we daily commit actions of so great violence.  But then, Ranald, in all services of Europe, it is the custom of the dying soldier not to vaunt him of such doings, or to recommend them to his fellows; but, on the contrary, to express contrition for the same, and to repeat, or have repeated to him, some comfortable prayer; which, if you please, I will intercede with his Excellency’s chaplain to prefer on your account.  It is otherwise no point of my duty to put you in mind of those things; only it may be for the ease of your conscience to depart more like a Christian, and less like a Turk, than you seem to be in a fair way of doing.”

The only answer of the dying man—­(for as such Ranald MacEagh might now be considered)—­was a request to be raised to such a position that he might obtain a view from the window of the Castle.  The deep frost mist, which had long settled upon the top of the mountains, was now rolling down each rugged glen and gully, where the craggy ridges showed their black and irregular outline, like desert islands rising above the ocean of vapour.  “Spirit of the Mist!” said Ranald MacEagh, “called by our race our father, and our preserver—­receive into thy tabernacle of clouds, when this pang is over, him whom in life thou hast so often sheltered.”  So saying, he sunk back into the arms of those who upheld him, spoke no further word, but turned his face to the wall for a short space.

“I believe,” said Dalgetty, “my friend Ranald will be found in his heart to be little better than a heathen.”  And he renewed his proposal to procure him the assistance of Dr. Wisheart, Montrose’s military chaplain; “a man,” said Sir Dugald, “very clever in his exercise, and who will do execution on your sins in less time than I could smoke a pipe of tobacco.”

“Saxon,” said the dying man, “speak to me no more of thy priest—­I die contented.  Hadst thou ever an enemy against whom weapons were of no avail—­whom the ball missed, and against whom the arrow shivered, and whose bare skin was as impenetrable to sword and dirk as thy steel garment—­Heardst thou ever of such a foe?”

“Very frequently, when I served in Germany,” replied Sir Dugald.  “There was such a fellow at Ingolstadt; he was proof both against lead and steel.  The soldiers killed him with the buts of their muskets.”

“This impassible foe,” said Ranald, without regarding the Major’s interruption, “who has the blood dearest to me upon his hands—­to this man I have now bequeathed agony of mind, jealousy, despair, and sudden death,—­or a life more miserable than death itself.  Such shall be the lot of Allan of the Red-hand, when he learns that Annot weds Menteith and I ask no more than the certainty that it is so, to sweeten my own bloody end by his hand.”

“If that be the case,” said the Major, “there’s no more to be said; but I shall take care as few people see you as possible, for I cannot think your mode of departure can be at all creditable or exemplary to a Christian army.”  So saying, he left the apartment, and the Son of the Mist soon after breathed his last.