which looked out seaward. While marching
thus, news came that Bradwardine's horse had had a skirmish with the
enemy, and had sent in some prisoners.

Almost at the same moment from a sort of stone shed (called a sheep
smearing-house) Edward heard a voice which, as if in agony, tried to
repeat snatches of the Lord's Prayer. He stopped. It seemed as if he
knew that voice.

He entered, and found in the corner a wounded man lying very near to
death. It was no other than Houghton, the sergeant of his own troop, to
whom he had written to send him the books. At first he did not recognise
Edward in his Highland dress. But as soon as he was assured that it
really was his master who stood beside him, he moaned out, "Oh, why did
you leave us, Squire?" Then in broken accents he told how a certain
pedlar called Ruffin had shown them letters from Edward, advising them
to rise in mutiny.

"Ruffin!" said Edward, "I know nothing of any such man. You have been
vilely imposed upon, Houghton."

"Indeed," said the dying man, "I often thought so since. And we did not
believe till he showed us your very seal. So Tims was shot, and I was
reduced to the ranks."

Not long after uttering these words, poor Houghton breathed his last,
praying his young master to be kind to his old father and mother at
Waverley-Honour, and not to fight with these wild petticoat men against
old England.

The words cut Edward to the heart, but there was no time for sentiment
or regret. The army of the Prince was fast approaching the foe. The
English regiments came marching out to meet them along the open shore,
while the Highlanders took their station on the higher ground to the
south. But a morass separated the combatants, and though several
skirmishes took place on the flanks, the main fighting had to be put off
till another day. That night both sides slept on their arms, Fergus and
Waverley joining their plaids to make a couch, on which they lay, with
Callum Beg watching at their heads.

Before three, they were summoned to the presence of the Prince. They
found him giving his final directions to the chiefs. A guide had been
found who would guide the army across the morass. They would then turn
the enemy's flank, and after that the Highland yell and the Highland
claymore must do the rest.

The mist of the morning was still rolling thick through the hollow
between the armies when Clan Ivor got the word to charge. Prestonpans
was no midnight surprise. The E