Then I knew that Ruth was hanging to my arm, pleading with me not to harm the man. I stared down at her, breathing heavily, and wondered what to do with him.
"Were you hurt, lassie?" I asked in haste.
"No, Davie. They came upon me suddenly, and I had but time to cry to you before they clapped a kerchief to my mouth and lifted me. At the top of the cliff I broke from them. But—oh, I fear me you have hurt this man sore!"
"And well enough for him," I responded grimly. "He is like to be worse hurt when my father lays hands on him."
"David! Surely they are punished enough!" she cried out. Looking down at her, I saw that her golden hair was streaming free and in her face was that same all-trusting look wherewith she had met us nine years before. The memory of that day struck me like a shock, so that I stared speechless. Just then the sailor groaned, rolled over, and sat up. I put my foot on his knife, debating whether to hale him to Rathesby or not.
"Let him go, David," pleaded Ruth. "Truly, they did me no harm, and if father knew of it he would be very angry. Do not tell him, Davie, for it can do no good and will only make him dour for days."
Now this was true enough, and when the flame of my wrath had quieted somewhat I was not over-anxious to kindle the flame again in my father's heart. So I looked down at the man and bade him stand up, which he did with a groan, rubbing his neck.
"Who are you," I asked sternly. "What was your intent?"
He glanced from me to Ruth, an odd gleam in his crafty eyes which liked me little. He seemed to hesitate before answering, though I had spoken in his own tongue.
"I am called Gib o' Clarclach," he replied surlily, in right good Gaelic. As I stared in amazement, he darted a venomous look at me. "But elsewhere I am known as The Pike," he added, "and I have friends you wot not of, stripling. So best say no more of this."