no personal injury was designed to him; and his romantic spirit, having recovered during his repose much of that elasticity which anxiety, resentment, disappointment, and the mixture of unpleasant feelings excited by his late adventures, had for a time subjugated, was now wearied with inaction.  His passion for the wonderful, although it is the nature of such dispositions to be excited, by that degree of danger which merely gives dignity to the feeling of the individual exposed to it, had sunk under the extraordinary and apparently, insurmountable evils by which he appeared environed at Cairnvreckan.  In fact, this compound of intense curiosity and exalted imagination forms a peculiar species of courage, which somewhat resembles the light usually carried by a miner,—­sufficiently competent, indeed, to afford him guidance and comfort during the ordinary perils of his labour, but certain to be extinguished should he encounter the more formidable hazard of earth-damps or pestiferous vapours.  It was now, however, once more rekindled, and with a throbbing mixture of hope, awe, and anxiety, Waverley watched the group before him, as those who had just arrived snatched a hasty meal, and the others assumed their arms, and made brief preparations for their departure.

As he sat in the smoky hut, at some distance from the fire, around which the others were crowded, he felt a gentle pressure upon his arm.  He looked round—­it was Alice, the daughter of Donald Bean Lean.  She showed him a packet of papers in such a manner that the motion was remarked by no one else, put her finger for a second to her lips, and passed on, as if to assist old Janet in packing Waverley’s clothes in his portmanteau.  It was obviously her wish that he should not seem to recognize her; yet she repeatedly looked back at him, as an opportunity occurred of doing so unobserved, and when she saw that he remarked what she did, she folded the packet with great address and speed in one of his shirts, which she deposited in the portmanteau.

Here then was fresh food for conjecture.  Was Alice his unknown warden, and was this maiden of the cavern the tutelar genius that watched his bed during his sickness?  Was he in the hands of her father? and if so, what was his purpose?  Spoil, his usual object, seemed in this case neglected; for not only Waverley’s property was restored, but his purse, which might have tempted this professional plunderer, had been all along suffered to remain in his possession.  All this perhaps the packet might explain; but it was plain from Alice’s manner that she desired he should consult it in secret.  Nor did she again seek his eye after she had satisfied herself that her manoeuvre was observed and understood.  On the contrary, she shortly afterwards left the hut, and it was only as she tripped out from the door, that, favoured by the obscurity, she gave Waverley a parting smile and nod of significance, ere she vanished in the dark glen.