Morag was no sooner sufficiently calm and collected, than she hastened to execute John Smith’s last injunctions. The poor Pensassenach was taken from the killogie more dead than alive. Morag would have had her to go to bed, but, having recovered herself a little, she became too much excited to rest; and, having arranged her dress, she began to bustle about her affairs, and to take a full note of her loss. It was, indeed, severe. But she felt that she endured it for a glorious cause, and that reflection made her bear it with wonderful philosophy. She was grieved, and even angry to learn that John Smith had enlisted with the Prince’s men, but she felt deeply grateful to him for having saved her life; and especially so, when she heard from Morag the story of the packman’s treachery, and John’s ingenuity in defeating it, as well as of the whole of his exertions for her preservation.
“Where has John bestowed the villain?” demanded the Pensassenach.
“Toon in ta lint pot, memm,” replied Morag; “I maun gang toon an get him oot o’ ta holl noo.”
“I’ll go with you, Morag,” said the Pensassenach; and so mistress and maid proceeded together towards the pond. “What noise is that?” cried the Pensassenach, as they drew near to it.
“Aw—yaw!—yaw—aw!” cried the packman from the pool.
“Where are you, wretched man?” cried the Pensassenach.
“Yaw—aw!—yaw—aw!” replied Mr. Dallas.
“Why don’t you speak distinctly?” demanded the lady.
“Aw—aw!—yaw—aw!” replied Dallas again.
“The sound would seem to come from under that loose heap of rushes at the margin of the pool yonder,” said the Pensassenach.