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performed, till the chief came within about pistol-shot of St. Clyde, when the hanchman and the bladier advanced to introduce their chief to the fellow-soldier of their late and lamented young
laird, Vich Ean Dunmorven, or, as by way of eminence the fallen hero was called, Ean Dunmorven; for it was only in the phrensy of patronimic lore, that young Dunmorven was styled son of red-haired Donald.
The gillies walked upright, equally destitute of the clumsy gait of the French paisans, or of a Kentish lout; but then they were by the side of their chief, and not to have shown all the stateliness and pride of Dunmorven's clan would have been sufficient ground for the chief ordering them a punishment greater than a dismissal from his service. And St. Clyde could not help making a momentary reflection, in contrasting the dignity of man's nature, as it embodied itself in the gait and mien of these devoted men, and the servile obedience of a gold-lace, six-feet high, brawny footman, dangling at “my” lady's tail from shop to shop in Bond-street and Piccadilly.
As soon as the bladier got within two paces of St. Clyde, he announced
“ Oil Roi Dunmorven greets well the son of St. Cleutha, the companion in arms of Vich Ean Dunmorven, who fell in battle: and Oil Roi Dunmoryen comes to welcome to his lands the brave St. Cleutha. Oil Roi Dunmorven approaches to embrace St. Cleutha, who will now be conducted to Dunmorven castle, and enjoy a Highland welcome.”
The chief gave St. Clyde a hearty embrace, as an earnest of. a Highland welcome.
The dress of the chief was perfectly
national. His trews and plaid were the tartan of his clan, and his bonnet was distinguished by a single plume of an erne.
His attendants were dressed in the philabeg and plaid. The chief took St. Cldye by the arm, and the whole party went to Dunmorven castle.
Dunmorven himself enquired particularly how his son had fallen in battle; and when they came to the castle, Lady Dunmorven and her daughters, to whom St. Clyde was introduced by the chief, welcomed their visitor as be, came their dignity and his rank.
But no sooner had this ceremony ceased, than the dutiful and parental soul of the mother and her daughters turned on the fate of the lamented Vich Ean Dunmorven.
It was clear to St. Clyde that this mother had not yet ceased to brood over the fate of her son, and the death
of their brother had given the young ladies a large share of the wild abstracted mourner; indulging in an intensity of feelings; stung with disappointed hopes; maddening with indignation at the fury of murderous battle; and drooping with hopeless recollections of the days of childhood and youth which the lamented Vich Ean Dunmorven had passed under his sire's paternal roof.
Their grief fed its fancy on the banquet of Nature, and it hugged its wretchedness with that sort of perverse satisfaction which wretchedness of this description, and of this only, seems capable of producing.
It was not possible for St. Clyde's heart not to sympathize' with them, and to turn the edge of its feelings to participate in this chaos of misery, And though he strove much to assuage their grief and anguish, by
every possible turn of thought and expression, the tempest of wretched suffering did not subside till their natures had exhausted their sufferings. The calm which followed, was that black melancholy which sits and throws around her a death-like silence, and a
The gloom which the presence of this welcome visitant threw around the castle, saddened the heart even of the chief, for St. Clyde handed him the sword of his fathers, which he had carefully saved in all his dangers; he had received it from Vich Ean Dunmorven in the hour of his death, and the moment of victory; it was an old heirloom, whose appearance, whilst it filled the chief's heart with sorrow, caused his eye to sparkle with martial pride; and a ring which Vich Ean Dunmorven with his last words desired St. Clyde to“ give! give it yourself!