“As to the un’erstan’in’ o’ them, laird, I mak nae doobt,” returned Grizzie; “an’ as little ’at he’s o’ the wrang side o’ the wa’ this time.”
“Na, Grizzie—for he’s upo’ my side o’ ’t, an’ walcome.”
“He’s jist as walcome, naither mair nor less, to the path I made wi’ my ain feet throu’ the rouchest pleughed lan’ I ever crossed.”
Therewith Grizzie, who hated compromise, turned away, and went into the kitchen.
“Come this way, my lord,” said the laird.
“Take the dog home,” said his lordship to the bailiff. “Have him shot the first thing to-morrow morning. If it weren’t the Sabbath, I’d have it done to-night.”
“He’s good watch, my lord,” interceded the man.
“He may be a good watch, but he’s a bad dog,” replied his lordship. “I’ll have neither man nor dog about me that doesn’t know his master. You may poison him if you prefer it.”
“Come awa’, come awa’, my lord!” said the laird. “This, as ye hae said, ’s the Sabbath-nicht, an’ the thoucht o’ ’t sud mak us mercifu’. I hae naething to offer ye but a cheir to rist ye in, an syne we’ll tak the ro’d like neebors thegither an’ I’ll shaw ye the w’y hame.”
His lordship yielded, for his poor thin legs were yet trembling with the successful effort they had made under the inspiration of fear, and now that spur was gone, the dyke seemed a rampart insurmountable, and he dared not attempt it.