The others in the rear shouldered forward the
front, and by their pressure added both physical impulse and additional
ardour and confidence to those who were first to encounter the danger.
'Down with your plaid, Waverley,' cried Fergus, throwing off his own;
'we'll win silks for our tartans before the sun is above the sea.'
The clansmen on every side stript their plaids, prepared their arms, and
there was an awful pause of about three minutes, during which the men,
pulling off their bonnets, raised their faces to heaven and uttered a
short prayer; then pulled their bonnets over their brows and began to
move forward, at first slowly. Waverley felt his heart at that moment
throb as it would have burst from his bosom. It was not fear, it was not
ardour: it was a compound of both, a new and deeply energetic impulse
that with its first emotion chilled and astounded, then fevered and
maddened his mind. The sounds around him combined to exalt his
enthusiasm; the pipes played, and the clans rushed forward, each in its
own dark column. As they advanced they mended their pace, and the
muttering sounds of the men to each other began to swell into a wild cry.
Pages:
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649