CHAPTER LXIII
DESOLATION
Waverly riding post, as was the usual fashion of the period, without any
adventure save one or two queries, which the talisman of his passport
sufficiently answered, reached the borders of Scotland. Here he heard
the tidings of the decisive battle of Culloden. It was no more than he
had long expected, though the success at Falkirk had thrown a faint and
setting gleam over the arms of the Chevalier. Yet it came upon him like
a shock, by which he was for a time altogether unmanned. The generous,
the courteous, the noble-minded Adventurer, was then a fugitive, with
a price upon his head; his adherents, so brave, so enthusiastic, so
faithful, were dead, imprisoned, or exiled. Where, now, was the exalted
and high-souled Fergus, if, indeed, he had survived the night at
Clifton?--where the pure-hearted and primitive Baron of Bradwardine,
whose foibles seemed foils to set off the disinterestedness of his
disposition, the genuine goodness of his heart, and his unshaken
courage? Those who clung for support to these fallen columns, Rose and
Flora,--where were they to be sought, and in what distress must not the
loss of their natural protectors have involved them? Of Flora he thought
with the regard of a brother for a sister--of Rose, with a sensation yet
more deep and tender.
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