“Alive!” answered Rory; “troth, I’m weel aware that I’m leevin, for albeit that the agony o’ my head wad gi’e me peace enow to let me believe that I had really depairted in real yearnest, the very hunger that ruggeth so cruelly at my inside wad be enew to keep me in mind that I was still belonging to this warld. For the sake o’ the gude Saint Lawrence, Maister Sang, gar ane o’ them chields rin and see gif Mrs. Margaret MacCleareye can gi’e me a bit o’ cauld mutton or sike like, and a wee soup yill. Tell the woman I’ll pay her for the score o’ yestreen and a’ thegither. But, aboon a’ thing, see that they mak haste, or I’ll die ere they come back. What sould I hae done an it hadna been for the gude wife’s wee bit supper afore we fell to!” [[469]]
Sang immediately despatched one of the camp followers who was standing by, and who quickly returned with the melancholy intelligence that Mrs. MacCleareye’s frail hut had been levelled with the earth by the press—that her provender had been scattered and pillaged—that her ale barrels had been rolled away and emptied—and that she herself had also disappeared.
“Hech me,” cried Rory, altogether forgetful of his own craving stomach; “poor woman, I’m sorry for her loss; aboon a’, it erketh me sair that I paid her not her dues yestreen. But, an a’ live, she or her heirs shall hae it, as I’m a true esquire. But, och, I’m faunt!”
“Take some of this, Master Spears,” cried Mortimer Sang, holding a leathern bottle to Rory’s mouth, and pouring a few drops of a cordial into it.
“Oich, Maister Sang, that is reveeving!” said Rory. “A wee drap mair, for the love o’ St. Lowry. Mercy me! Weel, it’s an evil thing after a’ to be killed in battle (as I may be allowed to judge, I rauckon, wha has been half killed), was it no for the glory that is to be gotten by it. But to be cut down and then travelled ower like a mercat-causey, and then to be biggit up like a lump o’ whinstane intil a dyke—ay, and that, too, for the intent o’ haudin out the yenemy, and saving the craven carcages o’ ither fouk, and a’ to keep the dastard sauls in chields that ane is far frae liking as weel as ane’s sell—troth, there’s onything but honour or pleasure in’t to my fancy.”
“Uve, uve! sore foolish speech, Maister Spears,” said a voice from the heap of dead bodies. “Great pleasures and high honours in troth, sure, sure.”
“Captain MacErchar!” cried Sang. “Run, Roger, and yield him relief.”
Squire Riddel hastened to the assistance of MacErchar, and drew forth his great body from the place it had occupied in the bottom of the fortification, where the skilful architect had, with much judgment, made use of him as a substantial foundation. His history had been something similar to that of Rory Spears, and he had not suffered less from wounds. He was brought forward and placed on a bank beside Rory, and a portion of Squire Sang’s life-inspiring bottle was given to him with the happiest effect.
“Hech me,” cried Spears, looking round with great compassion on his companion in glory and misfortune—“hech me, Captain MacErchar, wha sould hae thought that thou wert sae near? Had we but kenn’d we mought hae had a crack thegither, [[470]]albeit hardly sae cosy as in Mrs. MacCleareye’s. Troth, I was sair weary and lonesome wi’ lying, and even the converse o’ the sagaciousome brute there was a comfort to me. This is but ane evil way o’ weeting a squireship. We sould hae done it in ane ither gate, I rauckon, had the English chields but defaured a wee. But I trust that neither have you disgraced your captaincy nor I my squireship. I saw you fighting like a very incarnate deevil, ay, and sending the Southrons back frae the rampyre like raquet ba’s frae a wa’, though it may be premeesed that nane o’ them ever stotted again.”
“Ouch ay, troth ay,” replied MacErchar, “it was a bonnie tuilzie, Maister Spears. She did her pairts both—both, both. Ou ay; it was a great pleasures, in troth, to see her chap the chields on the crown.”