"May good betide us," said the South-lander--"Is this you, Robin
M'Combich, or your wraith?"

"It is Robin Oig M'Combich," answered the Highlander, "and it is
not.--But never mind that, give me pack my dirk, Hugh Morrison, or there
will be words petween us."

"There it is for you then, since less wunna serve."

"Cot speed you, Hughie, and send you good marcats. Ye winna meet with
Robin Oig again either at tryste or fair."

So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaintance, and set out in
the direction from which he had advanced.

Long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe of our tale had taken
place. It was two hours after the affray when Robin Oig returned to
Heskett's inn. There was Harry Wakefield, who amidst a grinning group of
smockfrocks, hob-nailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies, was
trolling forth an old ditty, when he was interrupted by a high and stern
voice, saying "Harry Waakfelt--if you be a man, stand up!"

"Harry Waakfelt," repeated the same ominous summons, "stand up, if you
be a man!"

"I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but it shall be to
shake hands with you, and drink down all unkindness.

"'Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck to be an Englishman,
thou canst not fight more than a school-girl."