"Alec!" shouted Thomas, in a voice that might have been heard across the roar of the Glamour, "Will ye lat the women droon?"
"Thomas," answered Alec, meekly, trembling from head to foot, "gin I gang to the boddom, I gang to hell."
"Better be damned, doin' the will o' God, than saved doin' noathing!" said Thomas.
The blood shot into Alec's face. He turned and ran.
"Thomas," said James Johnstone, with shy interposition, laying his forefinger upon the stonemason's broad chest, "hae ye considered what ye're drivin' the young man till?"
"Ay, weel eneuch, Jeames Johnstone. Ye're ane o' thae mealy-mou'd frien's that like a man sae wel they wad raither hae him gang wi' his back to the pleuch, nor ca't i' the face o' a cauld win'. I wad raither see my frein' hangt nor see him deserve hangin'. Haud awa' wi' ye. Gin he disna gang, I'll gang mysel', an' I never was in a boat i' my life."
"Come awa, Thomas," cried Alec, already across three or four ridges; "I canna carry her my lane."
Thomas followed as fast as he could, but before he reached the barn, he met Alec and one of the farm-servants, with the boat on their shoulders.
It was a short way to the water. They had her afloat in a few minutes, below the footbridge. At the edge the water was as still as a pond.
Alec seized the oars, and the men shoved him off.