“Thou art right,” replied Corrie. “Not only shall I respect the safety of every man belonging to Sir Patrick Grant, but I will even respect thee, who art but a mannikin, if thou canst prove thyself to be his. I have had peaceable passage to and fro through his grounds on Loch Ness side for too many years to do otherwise.”
“Then look ye here,” said Archy, plucking from his bosom the letter of which he was the bearer, and straightway showing the address, which was—To the honourable and gallant knight. Sir John Grant of Freuchie, these, with speed.
“That is all well,” said Corrie. “But methinks, mannikin, that this is anything but the road to Freuchie, if I know aught of this country side.”
“My master is up in the forest, a little bit above this, waiting for my tidings,” said Archy.
“Aha!” cried Corrie, relaxing his features into a smile, “some love adventure, I warrant me. Awell! I am the last man to put hindrance in the way of any such matter, especially where Sir John Grant is concerned. Nay, I would willingly go a good way out of my road to help him on.”
“Sayest thou so, Corrie MacDonald!” cried the urchin. “Then could I tell thee how thou mightest lend my master thy most effectual aid, and yet keep thine own road still, and that to thine own most abundant profit.”
“How may that be, my small man?” demanded Corrie. “If thou canst make thy plans clear to my conviction, thou shalt find me ready, zealous, prompt, and decisive.”
“Thou knowest Gibbon More Cumin, lord of these broad lands of Glenchearnich,” said Archy.
“Know him?” said Corrie with a grin. “Well do I that.”
“He is living here hard by at Delnahaitnich,” continued the page. “He keeps home so close, that no one can even have a sight of his daughter, far less have speech of her. Couldst thou not carry away his cattle from the forest here, so as to furnish him with a reasonably rational object for travelling for a season?”