ere ye stand."

"Ay," said the Highlander, unmoved, "but I carry neither snow nor silver
in my sporran. Ye will get it, Bailie--just when the King enjoys his ain
again, as the auld sang says!"

Then the magistrate turned to Frank.

"And who may this be?" he demanded, "some reiver ye hae listed, Rob? He
looks as if he had a bold heart for the highway, and a neck that was
made express for the hangman's rope!"

"This," said Owen, horrified at the Bailie's easy prediction as to the
fate of his young master, "this is Mr. Francis Osbaldistone, only son of
the head of our house--"

"Ay, I have heard of him," said the Bailie, still more contemptuously,
"he that ran away and turned play-actor, through pure dislike to the
work an honest man should live by!"

"Indeed," said the Highlander, "I had some respect for the callant even
before I kenned what was in him. But now I honour him for his contempt
of weavers and spinners, and sic-like mechanical persons."

"Ye are mad, Rob," said the Bailie, "mad as a March hare--though
wherefore a hare should be madder in the month of March than at
Martinmas is more than I can well say. But this young birkie here, that
ye are hounding the fastest way to the gallows--tell me, will all his
stage-plays and his poetries, or your broad oaths and drawn dirks tell
him where Rashleigh Osbaldistone is? Or Macbeth and all his kernes and
galloglasses, and your own to boot, procure him the five thousand pounds
to answer the bills that must fall due ten days hence--were they all
sold by auction at Glasgow Cross--basket hilts, Andrea Ferraras,
leathern targets, brogues, brechan, and sporrans?"

"Ten days!" said Frank, instinctively drawing Diana Vernon's letter out
of his pocket. The time had elapsed, and he was now free to open it.

A thin sealed enclosure fell out, and the wandering airs of the prison
wafted it to Bailie Jarvie's feet. He lifted it and at once handed it to
the Highlander, who, after glancing at the address, proceeded calmly to
open it.

Frank tried vainly to interpose.

"You must first satisfy me that the letter is intended for you, before I
can allow you to read it," he said.

"Make yourself easy, Mr. Osbaldistone," answered the Highlander, looking
directly at him for the first time, "remember Justice Inglewood, Clerk
Jobson, Mr. Morris--above all, remember your very humble servant, Robert
Campbell, and the beautiful Diana Vernon."

The vague resemblance which had been hau