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Updated: May 22, 2025
"I cannot tell what the terms were." "But I can tell you, sir Conachar," said the glover, angrily, "that there is no fashion of honesty in binding yourself to an honest craftsman, and spoiling more hides than your own is worth; and now, when you are of age to be of some service, in taking up the disposal of your time at your pleasure, as if it were your own property, not your master's."
Suffice it that, directing his course in a northwesterly direction, the glover travelled for a day's journey in the direction of the Breadalbane country, from which he hoped to reach the castle where Gilchrist MacIan, the captain of the Clan Quhele, and the father of his pupil Conachar, usually held his residence, with a barbarous pomp of attendance and ceremonial suited to his lofty pretensions.
But I know my failing, and yes, it must be said! so sorely dread that I cannot conquer it, that, could I have your consent to my wishes on such terms, I would even here make a pause, renounce the rank I have assumed, and retire into humble life." "What, turn glover at last, Conachar?" said Simon. "This beats the legend of St. Crispin.
But the dignity of your ancient craft removes not my wonder, that the father of this Conachar suffered his son to learn a trade of any kind from a Lowland craftsman, holding us, as they do, altogether beneath their magnificent degree, and a race of contemptible drudges, unworthy of any other fate than to be ill used and plundered, as often as these bare breeched dunnie wassals see safety and convenience for doing so."
Let the cans clink, lad, and thou shalt have a cup of the nut brown for thyself, my boy." Conachar poured out the good liquor for his master and for Catharine with due observance. But that done, he set the flagon on the table and sat down. "How now, sirrah! be these your manners? Fill to my guest, the worshipful Master Henry Smith."
She would rejoice in the good fortune of her household friend and playmate; but she would not value the splendid MacIan, captain of Clan Quhele, more than the orphan Conachar." "She is ever generous and disinterested," replied the young chief.
He affirmed that he had performed a magical ceremony, termed tine egan, by which he evoked a fiend, from whom he extorted a confession that Conachar, now called Eachin, or Hector, MacIan, was the only man in the approaching combat between the two hostile clans who should come off without blood or blemish.
"You had thought too much about it, my friend," said Lady Laura. "Too much or too little, what does it matter?" replied Phineas, in despair. "There is the fact. I could not do it. Do you remember the story of Conachar in the 'Fair Maid of Perth; how his heart refused to give him blood enough to fight?
"Keep at arm's length, then," said Henry, extending his brawny arm: "I will have no more close hugs no more bodkin work, like last night. I care little for a wasp's sting, yet I will not allow the insect to come near me if I have warning." Conachar smiled contemptuously. "I meant thee no harm," he said. "My father's son did thee but too much honour to spill such churl's blood.
"Conachar!" said Catharine, as he advanced, apparently without seeing what was before him, as hares are said to do when severely pressed by the greyhounds. But he stopped short when he heard his own name. "Conachar," said Catharine, "or rather Eachin MacIan, what means all this? Have the Clan Quhele sustained a defeat?"
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