‘Na, sir; the ane with that knight who was at the tourney—a plague light on him—went aff with the leddies—up yonder; but they, as they called the escort—the Archers of the Guard, as they behoved to call themselves—they rid aff by the way that we came by—the traitor loons!’
‘Ah! it was black treachery. Follow the track of the ladies, Ringan;—heed not me.’
‘Mickle gude that wad do, sir, if I left you bleeding here! Na, na; I maun see you safely bestowed first before I meet with ony other. I’m the Douglas’s man, no the Stewart’s.’
‘Then will I after them!’ cried George of Angus, starting up; but he staggered and had to catch at Ringan.
There was no water near; nothing to refresh or revive him had been left. Ringan looked about in anxiety and distress on the desolate scene—bare heath on one side, thicket, gradually rising into forest and mountain, on the other. Suddenly he gave a long whistle, and to his great joy there was a crackling among the bushes and he beheld the shaggy-faced pony on which he had ridden all the way from Yorkshire, and which had no doubt eluded the robbers. There was a bundle at the saddle-bow, and after a little coquetting the pony allowed itself to be caught, and a leathern bottle was produced from the bag, containing something exceedingly sour, but with an amount of strength in it which did something towards reviving the Master.
‘I can sit the pony,’ he said; ‘let us after them.’
‘Nae sic fulery,’ said Ringan. ‘I ken better what sorts a green wound like yours, sir! Sit the pony ye may, but to be safely bestowed, ere I stir a foot after the leddies.’
George broke out into fierce language and angry commands, none of which Ringan heeded in the least.
‘Hist:’ he cried, ‘there’s some one on the road. Come into shelter, sir.’
He was half dragging, half supporting his master to the concealment of the bushes, when he perceived that the new-comers were two friars, cowled, black gowned, corded, and barefooted.