But as they sat,
about to fall to on a much needed meal, down the little street came the
"rat-tat-tat" of a drum, and past the window swaggered an unkempt
Highland drummer, halting at intervals to hurl defiance at all Whigs,
and a challenge to them to fight the famous Highland champion, Rory Dhu
Mhor. And this is something after the fashion of what Ringan and his
weary comrades heard drawled out with fine nasal whine:
"This will pe to pe kiving notice to aal it may pe concerning, tat Rory
Dhu Mhor of ta Clan Donachy will pe keeping ta crown of ta causeway in
ta toun of Tunkel for wan hour and mhore. And he iss civilly tesiring it
to pe known tat if there will pe any canting, poo-hooing, psalm-singing
whig repellioner in ta toun, and he will pe so pould as to pe coming
forth his hiding holes, and looking ta said Rory Dhu Mhor in ta face, ta
said Rory Dhu Mhor herepy kifs promise to pe so ferry condescending as
to pe cutting ta same filthy Whig loon shorter by ta legs, for ta honour
of King Tchames. Ochilow! Cot save King Tchames!"
A few paces behind this tattered herald strutted the champion, Rory Dhu
Mhor, swinging his kilt, and like the wild stag of his native mountains,
haughtily sniffing the breeze.
At this sight, all the fierce old Border blood began to surge through
Ringan Oliver's veins.
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