“That has he so!” cried Alan, “if we could but win to them!—friends and rich friends, beds to lie in, food to eat, doctors to see to him—and here he must tramp in the dubs and sleep in the heather like a beggar-man.”
“And why that?” says the lass.
“My dear,” said Alan, “I canna very safely say; but I’ll tell ye what I’ll do instead,” says he, “I’ll whistle ye a bit tune.” And with that he leaned pretty far over the table, and in a mere breath of a whistle, but with a wonderful pretty sentiment, gave her a few bars of “Charlie is my darling.”
“Wheesht,” says she, and looked over her shoulder to the door.
“That’s it,” said Alan.
“And him so young!” cries the lass.
“He’s old enough to——” and Alan struck his forefinger on the back part of his neck, meaning that I was old enough to lose my head.
“It would be a black shame,” she cried, flushing nigh.
“It’s what will be, though,” said Alan, “unless we manage the better.”
At this the lass turned and ran out of that part of the house, leaving us alone together.—Alan in high good humour at the furthering of his schemes, and I in bitter dudgeon at being called a Jacobite and treated like a child.