“It’s a bogley part this after dark. I’ve heard as mony stories aboot ugsome sichts seen here as there’s teeth in my head. I wadna put ower a nicht here, no for the crown o’ Scotland. Haste you, master, haste you! It’s for your ain gude.”
Without doubt he meant well. But Ruthven flagged more and more, and, after climbing a grassy eminence, which was surmounted by the ruins of a place of strength, he protested that, happen what might, he would go no farther.
“You’re in jest, master?” cried Harthill, scratching the side of his head in sheer vexation.
“We can rest here till daylight,” replied Ruthven. “The place is lone, and therefore safe.”
“Safe?” echoed Willie, with somewhat of asperity. “If we be sae daft as to rest here, we may ne’er see daylicht. Be advised, master, be advised.”
Ruthven, however, was not to be advised. He advanced towards the ruin. The gaberlunzie followed with laggard pace, and shrank back when an owl started out, and, hooting dolefully, flew over their heads.
“There’s a warning!” ejaculated Willie. “The place is fu’ o’ uncanny things. Come back, for ony sake.”
But Ruthven still advanced. The ruin, in its palmy days, had consisted of a massive square tower of two storeys above the ground floor, with battlemented roof, and surrounded by an outer wall, which was now broken down to heaps of rubbish, overgrown with coarse vegetation. The roof had fallen in, and so had both floors, leaving only a shell of crumbling, grim walls: the courtyard was miry: and the arched portal preserved no vestige of the iron-bound door which had once barred passage. As Ruthven was about to pass inward, he was stayed for a moment by the almost hysterical entreaties of his companion, who now assumed a tone of wailing.
“I shall lodge here till morning,” answered the youth determinedly. “If anything earthly molests me, I carry a stout heart and a trusty blade; and unearthly things I fear not.”
The gaberlunzie held up his hands in deprecation of such a foolhardy resolve; but at length he said—“Aweel, master, a wilfu’ man maun ha’e his ain way, and I maun leave you for the nicht. May a’ haly saints watch ower you! I’ll gang-on to the neist bigging, and in the morning I’ll come back; but I fear the morning winna find you a living wicht.”