“Come na, nane o’ that crooked talk! Mary Lyon is nae bit silly Jenny Wren to be whistled off the waa’ wi’ ony siccan talk. Dinna tell me that a lawvier body doesna ken what ‘harbouring rogues and vagabonds’ means—the innocent lamb that he is—and him reading the Courier every Wednesday!”
“But,” said the solicitor, with more persistent firmness than his emaciated body and timorous manner would have led one to expect, “the children are here, and it is my duty to warn you that in withholding them from their natural guardian you are defying the law. I come to require that the children be given up to me at once, that I may put them under their proper tutelage.”
“Here, William,” my grandmother called out, recognizing the footsteps of her husband approaching, “gae cry the lads and lock the doors! There’s a body here that will need some guid broad Scots weared on him.”
But the lawyer was not yet frightened. As it appeared, he had only known the safe plainstones of Dumfries—so at least Mary Lyon thought. For he continued his discourse as if nothing were the matter.
“I came here in a friendly spirit, madam,” he said, “but I have good reason to believe that every male of your household is deeply involved in the smuggling traffic, and that several of them, in spite of their professions of religion, assaulted and took possession of the House of Marnhoul for the purpose of unlawfully concealing therein undutied goods from the proper officers of the crown!”
“Aye, and ken ye wha it was that tried to burn doon your Great House,” cried my grandmother—“it was your grand tutor—your wonderfu’ guardian, even Lalor Maitland, the greatest rogue and gipsy that ever ran on two legs. There was a grandson o’ mine put a charge o’ powder-and-shot into him, though. But here come the lads. They will tell ye news o’ your tutor and guardian, him that ye daur speak to me aboot committing the puir innocent bairns to—what neither you nor a’ the law in your black bag will ever tak’ frae under the roof-tree o’ Mary Lyon. Here, this way, lads—dinna be blate! Step ben!”
And so, without a shadow of blateness, there stepped “ben” Tom and Eben and Rob. Tom had his scythe in his hand, for he had come straight from the meadow at his father’s call, the sweat of mowing still beading his brow, and the broad leathern strap shining wet about his waist. Eben folded a pair of brawny arms across a chest like an oriel window, but Rob always careful for appearances, had his great-grandfather’s sword, known in the family as “Drumclog,” cocked over his shoulder, and carried his head to the side with so knowing an air that the blade was cold against his right ear.
Last of all my grandfather stepped in, while I kept carefully out of sight behind him. He glanced once at his sons.
“Lads, be ashamed,” he said; “you, Thomas, and especially you, Rob. Put away these gauds. We are not ‘boding in fear of weir.’ These ill days are done with. Be douce, and we will hear what this decent man has to say.”
There is no doubt that the lawyer was by this display of force somewhat intimidated. At least, he looked about him for some means of escape, and fumbled with the catch of his black hand-bag.