"I think," says I, "yon'll be Finlay Stuart's Uist powny; there's none here has the silver mane and tail. . . ."
"Imphm," says Dan; "imphm, Hamish, as Aul' Nick said when his mouth was fu'. Yon's Finlay's beast, and I'm thinkin' o' a' Finlay's lassies, there's just wan wid bother her noddle tae come here away, and that's Mirren; but wae's me," said he, with his droll smile, "she's set her cap at the excise-man, they tell me."
The lass drew up her pony beside us, and, man, they were a picture, these two—her hair, blown all loose, rippling like a wave, and the flush of youth glowing in her face and neck, and her eyes shining, and the noble Hieland pony, with his great curved neck and round dark barrel, and the flowing silver mane and tail. To me she bowed coldly enough, but with all the grace of one whose men-folk called themselves Royal, or maybe from Appin—especially in their cups. Although it seems the Royal Stuart race were none too particular whatever, but Dan had always his own way with the lassies.
"Has the de'il run away wi' the excise-man, Mirren, that you're risking horseflesh among the peat-bogs?"
"No," she cries, "no, but I wish he would be taking the whole dollop o' them to his hob, and then maybe decent folks would be having peace."
"That would stamp ye Finlay's lass if I didna ken already," says Dan.
"Ken me," cried the maid; "I'm well kent as a bad sixpence—a lass that should ha' been a lad wi' work to do or fighting, instead o' sitting—sitting like a peat stack, or"—with a fine flare o' colour—"like a midden waiting to be 'lifted.'"
"Ye're hard to please, my dear; there's many a lad wid be sair put oot if ye took to the breeks. . . ."
"It will not be this gab clash I came to be hearin', Dan McBride, but a most private business."
"Oh, don't be minding Hamish, my lass; he canna pass a rick o' barley but his eyes and mouth water. It's just lamentable," said he.