"The gibbet, then, I suppose, must be my doom?" said Lord Menteith. "Yet
I wish they had spared me the halter, were it but for the dignity of the
peerage."

He spoke this scornfully, yet not without a sort of curiosity, and
a wish to receive an answer; for the desire of prying into futurity
frequently has some influence even on the minds of those who disavow all
belief in the possibility of such predictions.

"Your rank, my lord, will suffer no dishonour in your person, or by the
manner of your death. Three times have I seen a Highlander plant his
dirk in your bosom--and such will be your fate."

"I wish you would describe him to me," said Lord Menteith, "and I
shall save him the trouble of fulfilling your prophecy, if his plaid be
passible to sword or pistol."

"Your weapons," said Allan, "would avail you little; nor can I give you
the information you desire. The face of the vision has been ever averted
from me."

"So be it then," said Lord Menteith, "and let it rest in the uncertainty
in which your augury has placed it. I shall dine not the less merrily
among plaids, and dirks, and kilts to-day."

"It may be so," said Allan; "and, it may be, you do well to enjoy these
moments, which to me are poisoned by auguries of future evil. But I," he
continued--"I repeat to you, that this weapon--that is, such a weapon as
this," touching the hilt of the dirk which he wore, "carries your fate."
"In the meanwhile," said Lord Menteith, "you, Allan, have frightened