“Freen’ Peter,” said Malcolm, “I’m gaein’ to speak oot the day.”
Peter woke up. “Weel,” he said, “I am glaid o’ that, Ma’colm,—I beg yer pardon—my lord, I sud say.—Annie!”
“Haud a quaiet sough, man. I wadna hae ’t come oot at Scaurnose first. I’m come noo ’cause I want ye to stan’ by me.”
“I wull that, my lord.”
“Weel, gang an’ gether yer boat’s crew, an’ fess them doon to the cove, an’ I’ll tell them, an’ maybe they’ll stan’ by me as weel.”
“There’s little fear o’ that, gien I ken my men,” answered Peter, and went off, rather less than half-clothed, the sun burning hot upon his back, through the sleeping village, to call them, while Malcolm went and waited beside the dinghy.
At length six men in a body, and one lagging behind, appeared coming down the winding path—all but Peter no doubt wondering why they were called so soon from their beds, on such a peaceful morning, after being out the night before. Malcolm went to meet them.
“Freen’s,” he said, “I’m in want o’ yer help.”
“Onything ye like, Ma’colm, sae far ’s I’m concernt, ’cep’ it be to ride yer mere. That I wull no tak in han’,” said Jeames Gentle.
“It’s no that,” returned Malcolm. “It’s naething freely sae hard ’s that, I’m thinkin’. The hard’ll be to believe what I’m gaein’ to tell ye.”