“Hold your foolish tongue, woman!” interrupted the old man. “No, no, boys! I’ll never consent to it.”
“Oh life is sweet! life is sweet!” cried the old woman again; “and the lives of both my bonny boys—the life of Ian, the father of this poor lassie!——”
“Oh, my father’s life!” whimpered the little girl.
“This is no place to talk of such things,” said the old man, leading the way into the apartment at the opposite end of the house, to that where John Smith was sleeping, and followed by all but Morag, who, having slipped towards the door, to listen after he had closed it, heard him say, “What made you speak that way before the stranger lass?”
“Who and what is she at all?” demanded Ian.
“A poor tired lass, weary with the long way she has been to see her friends,” said the old woman; “but she’ll be gone very soon.”
“If she does not go of her own accord, we must take strong measures with her too,” said Ian.
“God forgive you, boys, what would you do?” said the old man. “Let not the Devil tempt you thus. Would you bring foul treason upon this humble, but hitherto spotless shed of mine, by violating the sacred rights of hospitality to a woman, and by giving up a man to an ignominious death, who, upon the faith of it, is now soundly sleeping under my roof, in the other end of the house? Fye, fye, boys! I tell you plainly I will be a party to no such wickedness.”
“So you would rather be a party to assist in hanging Hamish and me, your own flesh and blood?” said Ian. “But you need be no party to either; for we shall take all the guilt of this fellow’s death upon ourselves.”
“You shall never do this foul treason, if I can prevent it,” said the old man, with determination.