"See, Alan!" said I.
"Wheesht!" said he, "this is my affairs."
The man was, no doubt, a little deafened by the clattering of the mill, and we got up close before he noticed. Then he turned, and we saw he was a big fellow with a mahogany face.
"I think, sir," says Alan, "that you speak the English?"
"Non, monsieur," says he, with an incredible bad accent.
"Non, monsieur," cries Alan, mocking him. "Is that how they learn you French on the Seahorse? Ye muckle, gutsey hash, here's a Scots boot to your English hurdies!"
And bounding on him before he could escape, he dealt the man a kick that laid him on his nose. Then he stood, with a savage smile, and watched him scramble to his feet and scamper off into the sand hills.
"But it's high time I was clear of these empty bents!" said Alan; and continued his way at top speed and we still following, to the back door of Bazin's inn.
It chanced that as we entered by the one door we came face to face with James More entering by the other.
"Here!" said I to Catriona, "quick! upstairs with you and make your packets; this is no fit scene for you."