"I passed another drove," said the squire, with one of your countrymen
behind them, they were something less beasts than your drove--doddies
most of them; a big man was with them--none of your kilts though, but
a decent pair of breeches;--d'ye know who he may be?"
"Hout ay--that might, could, and would pe Hughie Morrison--I didna
think he could hae peen sae weel up. He has made a day on us; put his
Argyle-shires will have wearied shanks. How far was he pehind?"
"I think about six or seven miles," answered the squire, "for I passed
them at the Christenbury Cragg, and I overtook you at the Hollan Bush.
If his beasts be leg-weary, he will be may be selling bargains."
"Na, na, Hughie Morrison is no the man for pargains--ye maun come to
some Highland body like Robin Oig hersell for the like of these;--put
I maun be wishing you good night, and twenty of them, let alane ane,
and I maun down to the Clachan to see if the lad Henry Waakfelt is out
of his humdudgeons yet."
The party at the alehouse were still in full talk, and the treachery
of Robin Oig still the theme of conversation, when the supposed
culprit entered the apartment. His arrival, as usually happens in
such a case, put an instant stop to the discussion of which he had
furnished the subject, and he was received by the company assembled
with that chilling silence, which more than a thousand exclamations
tells an intruder that he is unwelcome.
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