I came to an ale-house where I managed very well, for all that it had its
full share of clansmen stuffed into it, making a square meal of bread and
cheese and cold bacon, washed down with excellent ale. I made a point of
marking myself off as an Englishman by paying for my meal in the English
fashion.
Sallying forth, and still avoiding the square, I roamed round the little
town, distracting my mind by forcing an interest in what was going on. The
Highlanders were happy, noisy, and full of confidence--not unjustly, for
so far they had played ninepins with the Royal troops. Everywhere they
were hard at it, sharpening dirks and claymores and furbishing muskets,
and such of their talk as I could understand was all of battle imminent.
In the churchyard I found a number of them practising shooting, with a
grand old cross as a target. They had chipped it somewhat already. I
cursed them roundly and then bargained it off at the price of a few
shillings. They turned their attention, with hopeful grins, to the brass
weathercock on the church tower, which I did not deem worth saving.
Moreover, it was a better mark, and good shooting was to be encouraged.
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