“Mine honest friend,” said he, “you and I, being comrades at bed and board, should be better acquainted.  I am Dugald Dalgetty of Drumthwacket, and so forth, Major in a regiment of loyal Irishes, and Envoy Extraordinary of a High and Mighty Lord, James Earl of Montrose.—­Pray, what may your name be?”

“It will avail you little to know,” replied his more taciturn companion.

“Let me judge of that matter,” answered the soldier.

“Well, then—­Ranald MacEagh is my name—­that is, Ranald Son of the Mist.”

“Son of the Mist!” ejaculated Dalgetty.  “Son of utter darkness, say I. But, Ranald, since that is your name, how came you in possession of the provost’s court of guard? what the devil brought you here, that is to say?”

“My misfortunes and my crimes,” answered Ranald.  “Know ye the Knight of Ardenvohr?”

“I do know that honourable person,” replied Dalgetty.

“But know ye where he now is?” replied Ranald.

“Fasting this day at Ardenvohr,” answered the Envoy, “that he may feast to-morrow at Inverary; in which last purpose if he chance to fail, my lease of human service will be something precarious.”

“Then let him know, one claims his intercession, who is his worst foe and his best friend,” answered Ranald.

“Truly I shall desire to carry a less questionable message,” answered Dalgetty, “Sir Duncan is not a person to play at reading riddles with.”

“Craven Saxon,” said the prisoner, “tell him I am the raven that, fifteen years since, stooped on his tower of strength and the pledges he had left there—­I am the hunter that found out the wolfs den on the rock, and destroyed his offspring—­I am the leader of the band which surprised Ardenvohr yesterday was fifteen years, and gave his four children to the sword.”

“Truly, my honest friend,” said Dalgetty, “if that is your best recommendation to Sir Duncan’s favour, I would pretermit my pleading thereupon, in respect I have observed that even the animal creation are incensed against those who intromit with their offspring forcibly, much more any rational and Christian creatures, who have had violence done upon their small family.  But I pray you in courtesy to tell me, whether you assailed the castle from the hillock called Drumsnab, whilk I uphold to be the true point of attack, unless it were to be protected by a sconce.”

“We ascended the cliff by ladders of withies or saplings,” said the prisoner, “drawn up by an accomplice and clansman, who had served six months in the castle to enjoy that one night of unlimited vengeance.  The owl whooped around us as we hung betwixt heaven and earth; the tide roared against the foot of the rock, and dashed asunder our skiff, yet no man’s heart failed him.  In the morning there was blood and ashes, where there had been peace and joy at the sunset.”

“It was a pretty camisade, I doubt not, Ranald MacEagh, a very sufficient onslaught, and not unworthily discharged.  Nevertheless, I would have pressed the house from that little hillock called Drumsnab.  But yours is a pretty irregular Scythian fashion of warfare, Ranald, much resembling that of Turks, Tartars, and other Asiatic people.—­But the reason, my friend, the cause of this war—­the TETERRIMA CAUSA, as I may say?  Deliver me that, Ranald.”