Place and time rang and were tense. Flare and sonorousness and
a deep vibration of the old massive passions, and through all the
outward air a September sea mist creeping.
Ian Rullock, walking down the High Street, approaching St. Giles,
heard his name spoken from a little knot of well-dressed citizens. As
he turned his head a gentleman detached himself from the company. It
proved to be Mr. Wotherspoon the advocate, old acquaintance and
adviser of Archibald Touris, of Black Hill.
"Captain Rullock--"
"Mr. Wotherspoon, I am glad to see you!"
Mr. Wotherspoon, old moderate Whig, and the Jacobite officer walked
together down the clanging way. The mist was making pallid garlands
for the tall houses, a trumpet rang at the foot of the street,
Macdonald of Glengarry and fifty clansmen, bright tartan and screaming
pipes, poured by.
"Auld Reekie sees again a stirring time!" said the lawyer.
"I am glad to have met you, sir," said Rullock. "I fancy that you can
tell me home news. I have heard none for a long time."
"You have been, doubtless," said Mr. Wotherspoon, "too engaged with
great, new-time things to be fashed with small, old-time ones."
"One of our new-time aims," said Ian, "is to give fresh room to an
old-time thing. But we won't let little bolts fly! I am anxious for
knowledge."
Mr. Wotherspoon seemed to ponder it.
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