Jean Carnie said afterward, “Her eyes were like coals of fire.”
“Ye are doing what nae mon i' the toon daur; ye are a bauld, unwise lassy.”
“It's you mak me bauld,” was the instant reply. “I saw ye face the mad sea, to save a ship fra' the rocks, an' will I fear a mon's hand, when I can save” (rising to double her height) “my feyther's auld freend fra' the puir mon's enemy, the enemy o' mankind, the cursed, cursed drink? Oh, Sandy Liston, hoow could ye think to put an enemy in your mooth to steal awa your brains!”
“This 's no Newhaven chat; wha lairns ye sic words o' power?”
“A deed mon!”
“I would na wonder, y' are no canny; she's ta'en a' the poower oot o' my body, I think.” Then suddenly descending to a tone of abject submission, “What's your pleesure, Flucker Johnstone's dochter?”
She instantly withdrew the offending grasp, and, leaning affectionately on his shoulder, she melted into her rich Ionic tones.
“It's no a time for sin; ye'll sit by my fire, an' get your dinner; a bonny haggis hae I for you an' Flucker, an' we'll improve this sorrowfu' judgment; an' ye'll tell me o' auld times—o' my feyther dear, that likeit ye weel, Sandy—o' the storrms ye hae weathered, side by side—o' the muckle whales ye killed Greenland way—an' abune a', o' the lives ye hae saved at sea, by your daurin an' your skell; an', oh, Sandy, will na that be better as sit an' poor leequid damnation doown your throat, an' gie awa the sense an' feeling o' a mon for a sair heed and an ill name?”
“I'se gang, my lamb,” said the rough man, quite subdued; “I daur say whisky will no pass my teeth the day.”
And so he went quietly away, and sat by Christie's fireside.