TOUR TO NORTH-WEST HIGHLANDS. 129 



No lights, however no merry fires to draw the 

 damp out of us ! But stay it moves. 



May. Ay ! Doctor, so it doth. Gra'mercy, 'tis 

 a wraith ! 



Swivel. If so, by all means let us capture it ; 

 'twill make our fortunes, Bill. A show-spectre will 

 charm the virtuosi, and reduce the over-stock of 

 men's wits. Mayhap 'tis one of Fingal's heroes ! 

 We are not far from Cona, mind you- and if such, 

 what tales it may unfold ? How the tomes of 

 learned antiquaries will slide from the glass-case to 

 the lumber-room, when their pure palaver is exposed 

 and contradicted by its legendary tongue ? But how 

 shall we bribe it to approach, Bill ? Shall, we offer 

 it thy trout, man ? wandering ghosts are always 

 hungry. But ha ! it moves again. 



May. Let us pass quietly to this side 



Swivel. And flee our good fortune ? Nay, Bill, 

 nay, thou advisest without judgment. I will show 

 my front, and question it as to our track and 

 destination where this King's-house on the moor 

 of Eannoch lies. 



May. Folly ! perilous folly ! but take thy way 

 on't, Doctor. 



Swivel. Oh ! by all the miracles of St. Anthony ! 'tis 

 a horse a cart-horse and nothing but a cart-horse ! 

 Hie thee, Bill, this way, and behold a cart-horse. 



May. No unwelcome omen, Doctor ; the inn 

 cannot be far distant. 



