“Oh I’m not sure but the word of a Stuart is as good as the word of any other man,” replied Ballengeich with a ring of anger in his voice, at which the cobbler looked up surprised.
“You’re not such an enemy of the king as you let on at first,” commented the mender of shoes. “I doubt if I should have told you all this.”
“Have no fear. I can pledge you that my word is as good as a Stuart’s at least.”
“I hope it’s a good deal better.”
“Your plan is not only useless, but dangerous, my friend. I told you I would give you my advice, and now you have it. Do you think James is a lad that you can tie to your bench stool here, lock your door, and expect to find him when you came back? You must remember that James has been in captivity before, when the Earl of Angus thought he had him secure in the stronghold of Falkland, and yet, Jamie, who was then but a lad of sixteen, managed to escape. Man Flemming, I must tell you about that some day.”
“Tell me about what?” inquired the shoemaker.
“Oh well, it may not be true after all,” said young Ballengeich in confusion, “but a friend of mine was gardener at Falkland and knew the whole story about James’s escape. Never mind that; my advice to you is to shake hands with all such schemes, and turn your back on them.”
“Oh, that’s soon said,” cried the cobbler with some impatience. “‘Keep out of the fire and ye’ll not be burnt,’ says the branch on the tree to the faggot on the woodman’s back. You see, Ballengeich, in this matter I’m between the cart-wheel and the hard road. My head’s off if this ploy miscarries, as you’ve just told me, and my throat’s cut if I withdraw from the secret conclave. It’s but a choice between two hashings. There’s a dead cobbler in any event.”
“I see your difficulty,” said the laird; “do you want to be helped out of it?”