“God help me, I’m gone!” muttered the Pensassenach, in an agony of fear. “Oh, why did my husband leave me? The door never can stand such kicks as these. I see it yielding. Murder! murder! murder!”
“Tamm her nane sel’, but she has no more time for nonsense!” cried John, in a voice that seemed to betoken the climax of fury, and with that he drove the whole weight of his body, with the force of a battering-ram, against the door, forcing it out from its hinges, and tumbling it, and the chest of drawers, and the huge trunk, into the very middle of the room, with a violence that burst them open, and scattered their contents in all directions.
“Villain!” cried the Pensassenach, now suddenly excited to an unnatural boldness by despair of life, and standing with her back to the farther wall, armed with her husband’s broad-sword, which she had snatched from the bed-head, and drawn in her own defence, and which she now flourished with great activity and determined resolution, altogether regardless of the imperfect state of her attire. “Villain that you are, come but one step nearer to me, and this sword shall drink your life’s blood from your heart.”
“Ou fye! ou fye!” cried John, standing considerably abashed at this spectacle; “far got she tat terrible swoord?”
“Villain, you tremble!” cried the Pensassenach, roused still more, and, advancing towards John Smith, step by step, as she spoke; “fly villain, or I will put you to instant death!”
“Fye, fye!” said John; “but Fod she mauna mind it noo; tere’s nae mair time for ceremonies. She maun e’en tak her as she is.”
“Attack me as I am!” cried the Pensassenach; “if you do, death, instant death, shall be your portion.”
“We sall see tat,” said John, lifting his hazle rung; “we sall soon see tat,” and springing suddenly over the obstructing obstacles, John, with one blow of his stick, sent the sword spinning from the feeble grasp of the delicate hand that held it.
“Oh, mercy, mercy!” cried the Pensassenach, throwing herself on her knees before him, with the horrible dread of impending death upon her. “You would not murder your mistress, John, and all for asking you to drink an idle toast? Oh, spare me! spare me! Do not murder me in cold blood!”
“Shon Smiss murder!” cried he, with horror and astonishment on his countenance. “Foo! foo! fat could gars her sinks tat o’ Shon Smiss?—Shon wad fichts to ta last trop o’ her blots for her, futher she be King Charles’s man, or futher she be ta titter bid body o’ a sham king’s man. Foo! foo!—hoo could she sinks tat Shon Smiss wad do ony ill to ta Pensassenach tat has aye been sae kind till her, aye, and to Morag an a’,” and the poor fellow began blubbering and crying.