“He is a man of the times, however,” said Anderson; “and without such we should hardly be able to carry on our enterprise.”

“Let us go down,” answered Lord Menteith, “and see how our muster is likely to thrive, for I hear a good deal of bustle in the castle.”

When they entered the hall, the domestics keeping modestly in the background, morning greetings passed between Lord Menteith, Angus M’Aulay, and his English guests, while Allan, occupying the same settle which he had filled the preceding evening, paid no attention whatever to any one.  Old Donald hastily rushed into the apartment.  “A message from Vich Alister More; [The patronymic of MacDonell of Glengarry.] he is coming up in the evening.”

“With how many attendants?” said M’Aulay.

“Some five-and-twenty or thirty,” said Donald, “his ordinary retinue.”

“Shake down plenty of straw in the great barn,” said the Laird.

Another servant here stumbled hastily in, announcing the expected approach of Sir Hector M’Lean, “who is arriving with a large following.”

“Put them in the malt-kiln,” said M’Aulay; “and keep the breadth of the middenstead between them and the M’Donalds; they are but unfriends to each other.”

Donald now re-entered, his visage considerably lengthened—­“The tell’s i’ the folk,” he said; “the haill Hielands are asteer, I think.  Evan Dhu, of Lochiel, will be here in an hour, with Lord kens how many gillies.”

“Into the great barn with them beside the M’Donalds,” said the Laird.

More and more chiefs were announced, the least of whom would have accounted it derogatory to his dignity to stir without a retinue of six or seven persons.  To every new annunciation, Angus M’Aulay answered by naming some place of accommodation,—­the stables, the loft, the cow-house, the sheds, every domestic office, were destined for the night to some hospitable purpose or other.  At length the arrival of M’Dougal of Lorn, after all his means of accommodation were exhausted, reduced him to some perplexity.  “What the devil is to be done, Donald?” said he; “the great barn would hold fifty more, if they would lie heads and thraws; but there would be drawn dirks amang them which should lie upper-most, and so we should have bloody puddings before morning!”

“What needs all this?” said Allan, starting up, and coming forward with the stern abruptness of his usual manner; “are the Gael to-day of softer flesh or whiter blood than their fathers were?  Knock the head out of a cask of usquebae; let that be their night-gear—­their plaids their bed-clothes—­the blue sky their canopy, and the heather their couch.—­Come a thousand more, and they would not quarrel on the broad heath for want of room!”

“Allan is right,” said his brother; “it is very odd how Allan, who, between ourselves,” said he to Musgrave, “is a little wowf, [wowf, i.e. crazed.] seems at times to have more sense than us all put together.  Observe him now.”