"Hush, or the hail hive will be on us!" said he in a terrified whisper.
"Foul fa' ye, Ralf Riddel, if ye permit this wicked slaughter of a winsome young man!"
"But they would ding their daggers into me in a trice."
"What of that?" she asked sharply.
"A sma' matter to you perhaps, but mickle to me; and if I was pinked below the ribs by these bullies, Symon Brodie, that bluidthirsty and drunken butler o' auld Preston's would soon be drawing in his chair at the ingle. That chield is ower often here, gudewife, and I dinna like it. It is no aye for ale and up-putting he comes to the 'Golden Rose.' But what shall I do anent Fawside?"
"Gowk! do that whilk is right."
"And that is——?" queried Ralf, scratching his head—
"To send a saddled horse to the Burgess close, and let the young laird out by the back yett while these lords and loons are busy in the yard. Take the horse round by your own hand while I see to the puir gentleman."
The matter was thus arranged at once; and while the gudeman of the hostel led the nag through a narrow by-lane to the place indicated, an old and narrow alley of dark and lofty houses which opened eastward off the bank of the river, his better half acquainted the young traveller with the danger which menaced him. With the boldness of his race, he at first refused to fly, and resolved to confront these men and fight them. Then he thought of his mother, and yielded to the entreaties of the good woman, his preserver.
"I will owe you a brooch of gold for this, gudewife," said he, kissing her hand and buckling on his sword.