“You will hev to prove that—whatever.”
“No—they will hev to prove me guilty,” retorted the son.
“I wish I could believe ye, Tuncan.”
“It iss not of much consequence whether ye believe me or not, father. You are not to be my chudge—whatever.”
“That is goot luck for you, Tuncan, for if I wass your chudge I would be bound to condemn you—you wass always so fond o’ tellin’ lies.”
“It iss true what you say, father. It iss a chip o’ the old block that I am—more’s the peety.” At this point the door of the prison opened, and Elspie was ushered in.
“You here, father!” she exclaimed in evident surprise. “I had hoped to see Duncan alone.”
“It iss alone with him you’ll soon be,” replied the Highlander, putting on his hat. “Goot tay, Tuncan, my boy, an’ see that you’ll be tellin’ the truth, if ye can, when ye come to be tried.”
To this the youth made no reply.
“O Duncan!” said the girl, when her father had retired, “how came they to invent such lies about you?”