“Whut’s it? I dinna unnerstaun’ ye.”
“Wull’s ma name,” said the rider with an accent as broad as that of his questioner. “Wuz that no’ whut ye were spierin’? Dinna staun glowerin’ there, Jock Tamson, like an oolet or a gowk. Can ye no’ see Ah’m English? Gang awa’ and tell yer maister that a freen o’ Crummle’s at th’ door an’ craves a word wi’ him.”
“Dod!” cried the Bewildered warder, scratching his head, “if ye hae a tongue like that on ye since ye crossed the Border, ye’ve made the maist o’ yer time.”
“Is the Yerl o’ Traquair in?”
“He’s jist that.”
“Then rin awa’ an’ gi’e ma message, for Ah’m wet an’ tired an’ hungry.”
The warder sought Traquair in his library, where he sat, an anxious man, with many documents spread out on a table before him.
“Yer lordship, there’s a soldier in the uniform of the English rebels at th’ gates, wha says he’s a freen o’ Crummle’s, and begs a word wi’ ye.”
“Ah!” said the Earl, frowning, “they’ve caught poor Armstrong, then, and now, in addition to our troubles, we’ll need to bargain with that fiend Noll to save his neck. Everything is against us.”
“He may be an Englisher, but he’s got a Scotch accent as broad as th’ Tweed.”