r, the
colonel, to break up this charmed circle; and he humbly requests to be
put under the spell himself, through the enchanting voice of Miss
McIvor--one little Highland air, my dear Flora, is all he asks--but
see, with sombre Melancholy leaning on his arm, he comes to enforce
his own request."

And the gallant Colonel Mannering, supporting the fragile form of Lucy
Bertram, clad in deep mourning robes, now approached, and after
gracefully saluting the circle, solicited from Miss McIvor a song.
Waverly eagerly brought the harp of Flora from a small recess, and as
he placed it before her, whispered something in a low tone, which for
a moment crimsoned the brow of the maiden, then coldly bowing to him,
she drew the instrument toward her, and warbled a wild and spirited
Highland air, her eyes flashing, and her bosom heaving with the
exciting theme she had chosen.

"Pro-di-gious!" exclaimed a voice I thought I knew; and, sure enough,
I found the dear old Dominie Sampson close at my elbow--his large,
gray eyes rolling in ecstasy--his mouth open, and grasping in his
hands a huge folio, while Davie Gellatly, with cap and bells, stood
mincing and grimacing behind him--now rolling up the whites of his
eyes--now pulling the skirts of the unconscious pedagogue--and
finally, surmounting the wig of the Dominie with his own fool's cap,
he clapped his hands, gayly crying, "O, braw, braw Davie!"

Julia Mannering now touched the harp to a lively air, when suddenly
her voice faltered, the eloquent blood mantled her cheek, and her
little fingers trembled as they swept the harp-strings.

"Ah, ha!" thought I, "there must be a cause for all this--Brown must
be near!" and in a moment that handsome young soldier had joined the
group. Remembering the commands of Meg Merrillies, I was striving to
catch his eye, that I might do her bidding, when the gipsy herself
suddenly strode into the circle and fixing her eyes upon Brown, or
rather Bertram, she waved her long skinny arm, exclaiming,

"Tarry not here, Harry Bertram, of Ellangowan; there's a dark deed
this night to be done amid the caverns of Derncleugh, and then

The dark shall be light,
And the wrong made right,
When Bertram's right, and Bertram's might,
Shall meet on Ellangowan Height."

I now passed on and found myself in the vicinity of Old Mortality and
Monkbarns, who were deeply engaged in some antiquarian debate--too
much so to notice the shrewd smile and cunn