"Wittenbold, perhaps?" said Morton, "an old man, with grey hair and short black moustaches—speaks seldom?"
"And smokes for ever," replied Niel Blane: "I see your honour kens the man. He may be a very gude man too, for aught I see, that is, considering he is a sodger and a Dutchman; but if he were ten generals, and as mony Witty bodies, he has nae skill in the pipes; he gar'd me stop in the middle o' Torphichan's Rant, the best piece o' music that ever bag gae wind to."
"But these fellows," said Morton, glancing his eye towards the soldiers that were in the apartment, "are not of his corps?"
"Na, na, these are Scots dragoons; our ain auld caterpillars; these were Claver'se lads a while syne, and wad be again, may be, if he had the lang ten in his hand."
"Is there not a report of his death?" said Morton.
"Troth is there—your honour is right—there is sic a fleeing rumour, but, in my puir opinion, it's lang or the de'il die. I
