'He's a pratty man, a very pratty man,' said Evan Dhu (now Ensign
Maccombich) to Fergus's buxom landlady.
'He's vera weel,' said the Widow Flockhart, 'but no naething sae
weel-far'd as your colonel, ensign.'
'I wasna comparing them,' quoth Evan, 'nor was I speaking about his being
weel-favoured; but only that Mr. Waverley looks clean-made and deliver,
and like a proper lad o' his quarters, that will not cry barley in a
brulzie. And, indeed, he's gleg aneuch at the broadsword and target. I
hae played wi' him mysell at Glennaquoich, and sae has Vich lan Vohr,
often of a Sunday afternoon.'
'Lord forgie ye, Ensign Maccombich,' said the alarmed Presbyterian; 'I'm
sure the colonel wad never do the like o' that!'
'Hout! hout! Mrs. Flockhart,' replied the ensign, 'we're young blude, ye
ken; and young saints, auld deils.'
'But will ye fight wi' Sir John Cope the morn, Ensign Maccombich?'
demanded Mrs. Flockhart of her guest.
'Troth I'se ensure him, an he'll bide us, Mrs. Flockhart,' replied the
Gael.
'And will ye face thae tearing chields, the dragoons, Ensign Maccombich?'
again inquired the landlady.
'Claw for claw, as Conan said to Satan, Mrs.
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