“God! and here's the one that's sorry for that same. But over the walls they will not let me. 'If gentleman you would be,' says the captain, 'you must keep out of woods and off the highway.'”
“And you like it, Boboon?”
“Like it, heroes! But for the honour and ease of it, give me a fir-root fire in Glen Croe and a dinner of fuarag. It is not the day so much as the night. Lying in-by there on a posted-bed, I choke for the want of air, though the windows and doors are open wide.”
“Come away with us, Boboon; we have little lack with the fish, and few are our stories since you took to the town.”
“No, no, dears. Conan's curse, and I tell you no! In this place there is comfort, and every day its own bellyful.”
“But the freedom outbye, John, old hero! Last night we had the bravest of fires; the sparks flew like birds among the Duke's birches, the ground was snug and dry, and-”
“Begone! I tell ye no!”
“Listen! To-day we were among the white hares beyond the Beannan, thwacking the big fat fellows with our clubs. Such sport was not in all Albainn!”
“White hares!”
“White hares, old John! And Alasdair Beag has some new tunes since you left us—a piobaireachd he picked up from a Mull man.”