“No! ye'll no gang there at siccan a time.”
“Hands off, ye daft jaud,” roared he, “or there'll be another deeth i' the toon.”
At the noise Jean Carnie ran in.
“Let the ruffian go,” cried she, in dismay. “Oh, Christie, dinna put your hand on a lion's mane.”
“Yes, I'll put my hand on his mane, ere I'll let him mak a beast o' himsel'.”
“Sandy, if ye hurt her, I'll find twenty lads that will lay ye deed at her feet.”
“Haud your whisht,” said Christie, very sharply, “he's no to be threetened.”
Sandy Liston, black and white with rage, ground his teeth together, and said, lifting his hand, “Wull ye let me go, or must I tak my hand till ye?”
“No!” said Christie, “I'll no let ye go, sae look me i' the face; Flucker's dochter, your auld comrade, that saved your life at Holy Isle, think o' his face—an' look in mines—an' strike me!!!”
They glared on one another—he fiercely and unsteadily; she firmly and proudly.