“Uch-huch! of a truth she would like to go with her,” said MacErchar; “but troth, after all, she must confess that she kens but little o’ the way beyond her ain hills there. Weel would it be her part to wend wi’ her; but if yon loons ken the gate into Moray Land (as doubtless they have been there mony a time, and she does not mistake them) they will be better guides, after all. But what an she should ask some questions at them?”
“Thou hadst better do so,” said Hepborne; “best ask them whence they come, and what parts of the country they know, before thou dost teach them the object of thy questions.”
“Troth, and she’s right there,” said Duncan MacErchar; “this salvage loons are not just to lippen till; weel does she ken them; and, uve, uve! she maun tak special care to look sharp after them gin she should yede wi’ them; they are but little chancy, in troth. But she’ll call them in now, and see what the loons will say.”
The two uncouth-looking men were accordingly brought in. They made no obeisance, but stood like a couple of huge rocks, immovable, with all their thickets and woods upon them. They even beetled over the tall and sturdy form of Duncan MacErchar, who, though above the middle size, might have passed as a little man when placed beside those gigantic figures. Duncan put several questions to them in their own language, which they answered, but always before doing so, they seemed to consult each other’s countenances, and then both answered in the same breath. They eyed the knight and his page from time to time, as the inhabitants of all secluded and wild regions are naturally apt to stare at strangers. After a good deal of colloquy had passed, MacErchar turned to Hepborne—
“Sir Patrick,” said he, “these men ken every inch of the country from here to the Firth of Moray. Shall she now ask [[182]]them if they be willing to guide her honour to Lochyndorbe?”
“Do so, I beseech thee,” said Hepborne, “and tell them I will give them gold when they bring me thither.”
MacErchar again addressed them in their own language. The men seemed to nod assent to the proposals he made them; and after a few more words had passed between them—
“Uch, Sir Patrick,” said he, “they be very willing for the job. They’ll bring her there in two days. They say that she must be off by sunrise in the morning.”
This Sir Patrick readily undertook; and Duncan MacErchar having wet the treaty with a draught of the spirits from his stoup, of which he poured out liberally to each, the men retired. Sir Patrick Hepborne then signified a wish to go to his repose. Two heather-beds, of inviting firmness and elasticity, were already prepared at the two extremities of the chamber where they were; and the knight having occupied the one, and the page the other, both were very soon sound asleep.
About the middle of the night Sir Patrick was awakened by a noise. He raised himself suddenly, and, looking towards the door, whence it seemed to have proceeded, he saw that it was open. One or two of the great rough wolf-dogs came slowly in, looking over their shoulders, as if expecting some one to follow them—and, making a turn or two round the expiring fire, and smelling about them for a little while, walked out again. Hepborne arose and shut the door, and then threw himself again within his blankets. He lay for some time awake, to see whether the wolf-dogs would repeat their unpleasant intrusion; and finding that there was no appearance of their doing so, he again resigned himself to the sweets of oblivion.