surrendered herself to her insurgent subjects.  This direction was chosen because the Chevalier had received notice that the army of the government, arriving by sea from Aberdeen, had landed at Dunbar, and quartered the night before to the west of Haddington, with the intention of falling down towards the sea-side, and approaching Edinburgh by the lower coast-road.  By keeping the height, which overhung that road in many places, it was hoped the Highlanders might find an opportunity of attacking them to advantage.  The army therefore halted upon the ridge of Carberry Hill, both to refresh the soldiers and as a central situation from which their march could be directed to any point that the motions of the enemy might render most advisable.  While they remained in this position a messenger arrived in haste to desire Mac-Ivor to come to the Prince, adding that their advanced post had had a skirmish with some of the enemy’s cavalry, and that the Baron of Bradwardine had sent in a few prisoners.

Waverley walked forward out of the line to satisfy his curiosity, and soon observed five or six of the troopers who, covered with dust, had galloped in to announce that the enemy were in full march westward along the coast.  Passing still a little farther on, he was struck with a groan which issued from a hovel.  He approached the spot, and heard a voice, in the provincial English of his native county, which endeavoured, though frequently interrupted by pain, to repeat the Lord’s Prayer.  The voice of distress always found a ready answer in our hero’s bosom.  He entered the hovel, which seemed to be intended for what is called, in the pastoral counties of Scotland, a smearing-house; and in its obscurity Edward could only at first discern a sort of red bundle; for those who had stripped the wounded man of his arms and part of his clothes had left him the dragoon-cloak in which he was enveloped.

‘For the love of God,’ said the wounded man, as he heard Waverley’s step, ‘give me a single drop of water!’

‘You shall have it,’ answered Waverley, at the same time raising him in his arms, bearing him to the door of the hut, and giving him some drink from his flask.

‘I should know that voice,’ said the man; but looking on Waverley’s dress with a bewildered look—­’no, this is not the young squire!’

This was the common phrase by which Edward was distinguished on the estate of Waverley-Honour, and the sound now thrilled to his heart with the thousand recollections which the well-known accents of his native country had already contributed to awaken.  ‘Houghton!’ he said, gazing on the ghastly features which death was fast disfiguring, ‘can this be you?’

‘I never thought to hear an English voice again,’ said the wounded man;’they left me to live or die here as I could, when they found I would say nothing about the strength of the regiment.  But, O squire! how could you stay from us so long, and let us be tempted by that fiend of the pit, Rufinn? we should have followed you through flood and fire, to be sure.’