WHEN Ruthven mounted his steed, and passed the gate of Hawksglen, he found that all his followers, with the exception of Edie Johnston, had retired. Laden with booty, they had made tracks for Hunterspath, well knowing that their Captain was able to defend himself from the attack of any English straggler.
“It’s a bonnie sicht,” said Edie, as he indicated the English dead, “them a’ lying heids and thraws. An’ it was a bonnier sicht to see the lads gae aff wi’ the plunder.”
But Ruthven was in no mood for conversation. He had learned from Eleanor that Lady Elliot was desirous of marrying her to Sir Anthony Maxwell, and he well knew that Maxwell’s valour that day must have greatly advanced him in the eyes of Hawksglen. Deep in thought—almost unconscious of the presence of Edie—he rode on, while the shades of night descended upon them.
By and by the friendly light of a wayside tavern burst upon their view, and roused Ruthven from his stupor. Edie watched the Captain’s eyes light upon the inn.
“It’s dry wark ridin’ in silence,” he ventured to remark.
“Ay, Edie, ay, but I had thoughts that kept me frae thirst.”
“Ye’ve been unco quiet sin’ ye left Hawksglen. What ails ye, gin I may mak’ bold to speir?”
They had alighted from their steeds. Ruthven put his hand on Edie’s shoulder.
“Twa men and a’e woman,” he said, in a low tone.
“The auld complaint,” answered Edie; “put yer sword in him. Wha is he?”