“Ye’re no gauin’ to kill me, Rob Grant?” growled the fellow in growing fright.
“I’m gauin’ to see whether the shirra’ winna be perswaudit to hang ye,” answered the shepherd. “This maun be putten a stap till.—Quaiet! or I’ll brain ye, an’ save him the trouble.—Here, Janet, fess yer pot o’ pitawtas. I’m gauin’ to toom the man’s gun. Gien he daur to muv, jist gie him the haill bilin’, bree an a’, i’ the ill face o’ ’im; gien ye lat him up he’ll kill ’s a’; only tak care an’ haud aff o’ the dog, puir fallow!—I wad lay the stock o’ yer murderin’ gun i’ the fire gien ’twarna ’at I reckon it’s the laird’s an’ no yours. Ye’re no fit to be trustit wi’ a gun. Ye’re waur nor a weyver.”
So saying he carried the weapon to the door, and, in terror lest he might, through wrath or the pressure of dire necessity, use it against his foe, emptied its second barrel into the earth, and leaned it up against the wall outside.
Janet obeyed her husband so far as to stand over Angus with the potato-pot: how far she would have carried her obedience had he attempted to rise may remain a question. Doubtless a brave man doing his duty would have scorned to yield himself thus; but right and wrong had met face to face, and the wrong had a righteous traitor in his citadel.
When Robert returned and relieved her guard, Janet went back to Gibbie, whom she had drawn towards the fire. He lay almost insensible, but in vain Janet attempted to get a teaspoonful of whisky between his lips. For as he grew older, his horror of it increased; and now, even when he was faint and but half conscious, his physical nature seemed to recoil from contact with it. It was with signs of disgust, rubbing his mouth with the back of each hand alternately, that he first showed returning vitality. In a minute or two more he was able to crawl to his bed in the corner, and then Janet proceeded to examine his wound.
By this time his leg was much swollen, but the wound had almost stopped bleeding, and it was plain there was no bullet in it, for there were the two orifices. She washed it carefully and bound it up. Then Gibbie raised his head and looked somewhat anxiously round the room.
“Ye’re luikin’ efter Angus?” said Janet; “he’s yon’er upo’ the flure, a twa yairds frae ye. Dinna be fleyt; yer father an’ Oscar hae him safe eneuch, I s’ warran’.”
“Here, Janet!” cried her husband; “gien ye be throu’ wi’ the bairn, I maun be gauin’.”
“Hoots, Robert! ye’re no surely gauin’ to lea’ me an’ puir Gibbie, ’at maunna stir, i’ the hoose oor lanes wi’ the murderin’ man!” returned Janet.
“’Deed am I, lass! Jist rin and fess the bit tow ’at ye hing yer duds upo’ at the washin’, an’ we’ll bin’ the feet an’ the han’s o’ ’im.”