One man has rounded the summit, and two others follow him neck-and-neck. They are coming down, jumping, leaping, flying. They're here, here, and it is—yes, it is Robbie that leads!
“Well done! Splendid! Twelve minutes! Well done! Weel, weel, I oles do say 'at ye hev a lang stroke o' the grund, Robbie,” says Mattha.
“And what do you say?” says Robbie, panting, and pulling on his coat as he turns to Liza, who is trying to look absent and unconcerned.
“Ay! Did you speak to me? I say that perhaps you didn't go round the 'man' at all. You were always a bit of a cheat, you know.”
“Then here goes for cheating you.” Robbie had caught Liza about the waist, and was drawing her to that rose-covered thicket. She found he was holding her tight. He was monstrously strong. What ever was the good of trying to get away?
Two elderly women were amused spectators of Liza's ineffectual struggles.
“I suppose you know they are to be wedded,” said one.
“I suppose so,” rejoined the other; “and I hear that Ralph is to let a bit of land to Robbie; he has given him a horse, I'm told.”
Matthew Branthwaite had returned to his station by Mrs. Ray's chair.
“Whear's Rotha?” says the old weaver.