The ambush had been skilfully contrived. The unsuspected Fitzherbert advanced gaily. Poor Flora trembled and shrank back—the instinctive delicacy of her simple womanly nature overpowering her with shame. To meet this odious man at all, if it were but for a second, was a disgrace to her, even though Angus and Duncan were waiting at her side.
Mr. Fitzherbert began a gallant speech—he attempted to take Flora’s hand. The girl shrank back to the shelter of the bourtree-bush—and in another moment, Fitzherbert was struggling in the stalwart arms of Angus Macalpine—an embrace as unexpected as it was overpowering.
“Haud the ill tongue of ye!” exclaimed Duncan Roy, as he seized the struggling legs of the unhappy adventurer, and held him fast. “If ye say another word, ye shall rue it a’ your days.”
“Do you want to rob me?” cried Fitzherbert. “I haven’t my purse on me, good fellows. Let me go, or you shall suffer for it.”
“Rob ye!” Tall Angus Macalpine seized his collar with an exclamation of disgust, and shook him violently. “Rob ye! Ye pitiful animal, wha would file their fingers with your filthy siller! Duncan, give me the plaid.”
The other two auxiliaries were standing by expending their pent-up laughter, Johnnie Halflin bestirred himself now, to hand to Angus one of the plaids that lay on the grass beside him.
Threats, entreaties, vociferation, rage, all were in vain. The plaid was bound tightly round the unhappy Fitzherbert, strapping his arms to his side. Then Duncan confined in like manner his struggling feet. Then they laid him down on the grass.
“Hushaba!” sung Johnnie Halflin as, with laughter not to be suppressed, they viewed the ludicrous bondage of their foe. “Eh, man, ye’re a muckle baby to lie there, and do naething but squeal.”
“What gars ye no fight wi’ your neives, like a man?” cried George.
“Do you no see? He’s putting a’ his strength into the feet of him. See, woman Flora, he’s walopping like the fishes in the Portoran boats when they’re new catched. He’s new catched, too. Gie him a taste o’ the water.”