had come. He gave Edward to
understand, that the greater part of his followers, now on the field, were bound
on a distant expedition, and that when he had deposited him in the house of a
gentleman, who he was sure would pay him every attention, he himself should be
under the necessity of accompanying them the greater part of the way, but would
lose no time in rejoining his friend.
    Waverley was rather surprised that Fergus had not mentioned this ulterior
destination when they set out upon the hunting-party; but his situation did not
admit of many interrogatories. The greater part of the clansmen went forward
under the guidance of old Ballenkeiroch, and Evan Dhu Maccombich, apparently in
high spirits. A few remained for the purpose of escorting the Chieftain, who
walked by the side of Edward's litter, and attended him with the most
affectionate assiduity. About noon, after a journey which the nature of the
conveyance, the pain of his bruises, and the roughness of the way, rendered
inexpressibly painful, Waverley was hospitably received into the house of a
gentleman related to Fergus, who had prepared for him every accommodation which
the simple habits of living, then universal in the Highlands, put in his power.
In this person, an old man about seventy, Edward admired a relic of primitive
simplicity. He wore no dress but what his estate afforded. The cloth was the
fleece of his own sheep, woven by his own servants, and stained into tartan by
the dyes produced from the herbs and lichens of the hills around him. His linen
was spun by his daughters and maid-servants, from his own flax, nor did his
table, though plentiful, and varied with game and fish, offer an article but
what was of native produce.
    Claiming himself no rights of clanship or vassalage, he was fortunate in the
alliance and protection of Vich Ian Vohr, and other bold and enterprising
Chieftains, who protected him in the quiet unambitious life he loved. It is
true, the youth born on his grounds were often enticed to leave him for the
service of his more active friends; but a few old servants and tenants used to
shake their grey locks when they heard their master censured for want of spirit,
and observed, »When the wind is still, the shower falls soft.« This good old
man, whose charity and hospitality were unbounded, would have received Waverley
with kindness, had he been the meanest Saxon peasant, since his situation
required assistance. But his attention to a friend and guest of Vich Ian Vohr
was anxious and unremitted. Other embrocations were