“Catriona must come with us,” said I. “She can have no more traffic with that man. She and I are to be married.” At which she pressed my hand to her side.
“Are ye there with it?” says Alan, looking back. “The best day’s work that ever either of ye did yet! And I’m bound to say, my dawtie, ye make a real bonny couple.”
The way that he was following brought us close in by the windmill, where I was aware of a man in seaman’s trousers, who seemed to be spying from behind it. Only, of course, we took him in the rear.
“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 sandhills.