“Let me carry her,” said Brace, hoarsely, as he staggered to his feet; but only to sink down again, his numbed limbs refusing their office.
“Ye’re a bra’e laddie,” said the Scot; “but your sperrit’s stronger than your power. I’ll carry the lassie to the carriage, and be back for you in a minute.”
“Never mind me,” groaned Brace. “I’m only cold. For Heaven’s sake drive off with her, for she is nearly dead with her long immersion.”
But before Brace’s words were well uttered, McCray was sturdily trudging over the sinking way with his dripping burden, which he placed in the pony-carriage, covered with a rug, and then returned to help the young man, who was crawling towards him.
“Bra’e laddie, ye air,” muttered McCray. “Ye found and savit her, I ken, and noo, half dead yersel’, ready to help, while that loon stands stoock there shouting for succour, and afraid to move. Here, hi! my laird, move yersel’, man, and, Gude sake, get out of that!”
“Here, give me your hand, my good fellow,” cried his lordship: “I’m in a dangerous spot.”
McCray growled fiercely as he went first and helped Brace to the chaise. Then turning back, he reached out the asked-for hand to extricate his lordship, but in so rough a manner that he nearly brought him into a horizontal position.
“Why, ye micht ha’e done that yersel’, my laird,” said McCray, angrily. “And noo I must leave ye, and hurry hame wi’ those two puir bairns.”
His lordship began to offer expostulations as he began to scuffle out of the bog, but it was to deaf ears, for McCray had run back, and before the noble suitor was on terra firma the ponies were unloosed and being made to gallop over the rough roadway.
“They’ll be dead wi’ cauld before I can get them to the Castle,” muttered McCray, as he held Isa in his arm, and rattled the reins with the other, so that the ponies plunged along furiously. “Puir bairns—puir bairns!”