“Na, na, Daeniel Throckle,” said the girl; “thee knawest thou’rt ower auld for me—thou’rt ower auld to be mate o’ mine”———
“Ower auld!—a—a—thou scoffing—thou scoffing giglet thou!” cried Throckle; “thou’ll find me—a—kinder—a—thou’lt find me kinder at least than that cross-grained, haughty knave, Ralpho Proudfoot. A pestilent rascal!—Thou knawest—a—a—a—thou knawest, I say, how ill he used thee—a—but last night—no farther gone. Did he not beat thee—a—yestreen—a—till he made thee rout out like any Laverdale cow, when—a—she hath been driven—a—across the Border—a—and hath left her calf behind her?”
“In troth, Daeniel Throckle,” said the wench, “he did use me hard enow, that’s certain, now when a’s done. But rise thee up, Daeniel. Bethink thee, thou’rt a’ that be left to guard the Castle, and it be na mysel, and auld Harry Haddon standing sentry at the yett. Ise warrant he’s asleep or this time:—And what ’ud coum o’ us an the prisoners were to break out?”
“Phoo!” said Daniel, sticking one arm akimbo, and assuming the most ridiculous air of importance—“Phoo! I would not care that—a—a—snap of my finger, look you now, for—a—a—for the whole bunch of ’em. A stout, able-bodied—a—courageous—a—warlikesome—a—Southron like me—well fortified and charged with potent double ale—against three lousy Scottish louns! Phoo! I’d put ’em all down with my thumb. But—a—a—but look ye here, my bonnie Betty Burrel; here they are[[158]]—a—a—all safe at my girdle. This mockel knave here,” continued he, laying hold of the keys that hung from his belt, “this mockel knave—a—I call Goliath; he—a—a—he locks me up and maketh me sicker—a—the tall dark wight—a—that hath been put in durance in the hanging vault at the top o’ the keep: he’s—a—he’s fast enow, I warrant thee, and, ha! ha! ha! hath got jolly company with him, I wot. Poor Tim Ord, thou knawest—a—was strung up for traiterie; and ha! ha! ha!—sure I canna help loffen to but think on’t; ha! ha! ha! ha! he hangs yonder aside the poor Scottish Knight they took yestreen—a bonnie jolly comrade for him to spend the night wi’, I trow.”
“Poor Tim Ord!” said the girl, “thou gar’st mine heart creep to think hoo hasty they waur wi’ ’im.”
“Hasty,” cried Throckle, “ay, I trow, he lay not among his straw an hour—a—till Wat Withe and his mates broke his dreams, to send him to a sounder sleep, ha! ha! ha! But—a—a—’tis the gate, wench—a—’tis the gate that a’ sike traitorous faitours should yede them.”
“But what key is that other wi’ the queer courbed handle?” inquired the curious Betty Burrel.
“Wilt thou—a—a—wilt thou gie me a buss, then, and I’ll tell thee?” said Throckle.
Betty Burrel advanced her head within his reach. Old Throckle kissed her, and endeavoured to detain her, but, after some little romping, she escaped.
“Tell me now,” said she, “sin I gied thee the kiss.”