The shoemaker looked up, with his hands bound in his threads.
'Ye're no gaein' to tak her frae me the nicht?'
'Ay am I, but I'll fess her back again. I'm no gaein' to Jericho wi' her.'
'Gang to Hecklebirnie wi' her, and that's three mile ayont hell.'
'Na; we maun win farther nor that. There canna be muckle fiddlin' there.'
'Weel, tak her to the new Jeroozlem. I s' gang doon to Lucky Leary's, and fill mysel' roarin' fou, an' it'll be a' your wyte (blame).'
'I doobt ye'll get the straiks (blows) though. Or maybe ye think Bell 'ill tak them for ye.'
Dooble Sanny caught up a huge boot, the sole of which was filled with broad-headed nails as thick as they could be driven, and, in a rage, threw it at Robert as he darted out. Through its clang against the door-cheek, the shoemaker heard a cry from the instrument. He cast everything from him and sprang after Robert. But Robert was down the wynd like a long-legged grayhound, and Elshender could only follow like a fierce mastiff. It was love and grief, though, and apprehension and remorse, not vengeance, that winged his heels. He soon saw that pursuit was vain.
'Robert! Robert!' he cried; 'I canna win up wi' ye. Stop, for God's sake! Is she hurtit?'
Robert stopped at once.