“Bring a torch,” cried Allan, “mayhap the wean is but a fairy changeling, and I must see to that ere it comes under our roof.”
“The wean? whatna wean?” inquired Robin, rubbing his sleepy eyes with the knuckles of the hand that held the spear.
“You hear the wean yaumering: and fairy weans are ever girning—devil take them!”
“Allan, Allan, dinna speak o’ them in sic a way, and at sic an hour. Ha’e you forgotten the auld rhyme?
“Gin you ca’ me Imp or Elf,
I rede you look weel to yourself.
Gin you ca’ me Fairy,
I’ll work you muckle tarrie.
“I beseech you, Allan, bethink yoursel’ that this is just the time when the gude neighbours are busiest for gude and ill.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed the warder. “I think a bad neighbour has been here. Fetch a torch, in Mahound’s name!”