’Davie’s no sae silly as folk tak him for, Mr. Wauverley; he wadna hae brought you here unless he had kend ye was a friend to his Honour; indeed the very dogs kend ye, Mr. Wauverley, for ye was aye kind to beast and body.  I can tell you a story o’ Davie, wi’ his Honour’s leave.  His Honour, ye see, being under hiding in thae sair times—­the mair’s the pity—­he lies a’ day, and whiles a’ night, in the cove in the dern hag; but though it’s a bieldy eneugh bit, and the auld gudeman o’ Corse-Cleugh has panged it wi’ a kemple o’ strae amaist, yet when the country’s quiet, and the night very cauld, his Honour whiles creeps doun here to get a warm at the ingle and a sleep amang the blankets, and gangs awa in the morning.  And so, ae morning, siccan a fright as I got!  Twa unlucky red-coats were up for black-fishing, or some siccan ploy—­for the neb o’ them’s never out o’ mischief—­and they just got a glisk o’ his Honour as he gaed into the wood, and banged aff a gun at him.  I out like a jer-falcon, and cried—­“Wad they shoot an honest woman’s poor innocent bairn?” And I fleyt at them, and threepit it was my son; and they damned and swuir at me that it was the auld rebel, as the villains ca’d his Honour; and Davie was in the wood, and heard the tuilzie, and he, just out o’ his ain head, got up the auld grey mantle that his Honour had flung off him to gang the faster, and he cam out o’ the very same bit o’ the wood, majoring and looking about sae like his Honour, that they were clean beguiled, and thought they had letten aff their gun at crack-brained Sawney, as they ca’ him; and they gae me saxpence, and twa saumon fish, to say naething about it.  Na, na, Davie’s no just like other folk, puir fallow; but he’s no sae silly as folk tak him for.  But, to be sure, how can we do eneugh for his Honour, when we and ours have lived on his ground this twa hundred years; and when he keepit my puir Jamie at school and college, and even at the Ha’-house, till he gaed to a better place; and when he saved me frae being ta’en to Perth as a witch—­Lord forgi’e them that would touch sic a puir silly auld body!—­and has maintained puir Davie at heck and manger maist feck o’ his life?’

Waverley at length found an opportunity to interrupt Janet’s narrative by an inquiry after Miss Bradwardine.

‘She’s weel and safe, thank God! at the Duchran,’ answered the Baron; ’the laird’s distantly related to us, and more nearly to my chaplain, Mr. Rubrick; and, though he be of Whig principles, yet he’s not forgetful of auld friendship at this time.  The Bailie’s doing what he can to save something out of the wreck for puir Rose; but I doubt, I doubt, I shall never see her again, for I maun lay my banes in some far country.’

‘Hout na, your Honour,’ said old Janet, ’ye were just as ill aff in the feifteen, and got the bonnie baronie back, an’ a’.  And now the eggs is ready, and the muir-cock’s brandered, and there’s ilk ane a trencher and some saut, and the heel o’ the white loaf that cam frae the Bailie’s, and there’s plenty o’ brandy in the greybeard that Luckie Maclearie sent doun, and winna ye be suppered like princes?’