His leathern buskins were cut and torn, and his feet marked the sod with blood.

His countenance was wild, haggard, and highly excited, or, as the Scottish phrase expresses it, much "raised." "Conachar!" said Catharine, as he advanced, apparently without seeing what was before him, as hares are said to do when severely pressed by the greyhounds.

But he stopped short when he heard his own name.
"Conachar," said Catharine, "or rather Eachin MacIan, what means all this?
Have the Clan Quhele sustained a defeat ?" "I have borne such names as this maiden gives me," said the fugitive, after a moment's recollection.

"Yes, I was called Conachar when I was happy, and Eachin when I was powerful.

But now I have no name, and there is no such clan as thou speak'st of; and thou art a foolish maid to speak of that which is not to one who has no existence." "Alas! unfortunate--" "And why unfortunate, I pray you ?" exclaimed the youth.