“I think we cud sort them,” said Phemy. “There’s ae place, a guid bit farrer in, whaur the rufe comes doon to the flure, leavin’ jist ae sma’ hole to creep throu’: it wad be fine to hae a gey muckle stane handy, jist to row (roll) athort it, an’ gar ’t luik as gien ’t was the en’ o’ a’thing. But the hole’s sae sma’ at the laird has ill gettin’ his puir back throu’ ’t.”
“I couldna help won’erin’ hoo he wan throu’ at the tap there,” said Malcolm.
At this the laird laughed almost merrily, and rising, took Malcolm by the hand and led him to the spot, where he made him feel a rough groove in the wall of the rocky strait: into this hollow he laid his hump, and so slid sideways through.
Malcolm squeezed himself through after him, saying,—
“Noo ye’re oot, laird, hadna ye better come wi’ me hame to Miss Horn’s, whaur ye wad be as safe ’s gien ye war in h’aven itsel’?”
“Na, I canna gang to Miss Horn’s,” he replied.
“What for no, laird?”
Pulling Malcolm down towards him, the laird whispered in his ear,
“’Cause she’s fleyt at my back.”
A moment or two passed ere Malcolm could think of a reply both true and fitting. When at length he spoke again there was no answer, and he knew that he was alone.