“Willie, man,” said he, without noticing my comment, “she’s weel awa, and you are weel redd—but toss off thae wylie-coats and nightcaps, and lap yoursell up in mensefu’ braid-claith; for, donsie as you are, you maun come alang wi’ me to Knowehead—there’s a troop o’ dragoons e’en now on Skyboe side, wi’ your creditable namesake at their head, and they’ll herry Moyabel frae hearthstane to riggin’ before sax hours are gane—best keep frae under a lowin’ king-post, and on the outside o’ the four wa’s o’ a prevost.—You’re no fit to ride, man; and you couldna thole the jolting o’ a wheel-car—but never fear, we’ll slip you hame upon a feather-bed.—Nae denial, Willie—here, draw on your coat: now, that’s something purpose-like—cram thae flim-flams into a poke, my bonny Jean, and fetch me a handkerchief to tie about his head: Come, Willie, take my arm—come awa, come awa.”
I was passive in his hands, for I felt as weak as an infant. They wrapped me up in greatcoats and blankets, and supported me to the courtyard. I had hardly strength to speak to Aleck, whom I now saw for the first time since the night of his disaster; the poor fellow’s face still bore the livid marks of his punishment, but he was active and assiduous as ever. A slide car or slipe—a vehicle something like a Lapland sledge—was covered with bedding in the middle of the square: a cart was just being hurried off, full of loose furniture, with Peggy and Jenny in front. I was placed upon my hurdle, apparently as little for this world as if Tyburn had been its destination: Knowehead and Aleck mounted their horses, took the reins of that which drew me at either side, and hauled me off at a smart trot along the smooth turf of the grass-grown causeway. The motion was sliding and agreeable, except on one occasion, when we had to take a few perches of the highway in crossing the river; but when we struck off into the green horse-track again, and began to rise and sink upon the ridges of the broad lea, I could have compared my humble litter to the knight’s horses, which felt like proud seas under them. From the sample I had had of that part of the country on the night of the flood, I had anticipated a “confused march forlorn, through bogs, caves, fens, lakes, dens, and shades of death,” but was agreeably surprised to see the Longslap Moss a simple stripe along the water’s edge, lying dark in the deepening twilight, a full furlong from our path, which, instead of weltering through the soaked and spungy flats that I had expected, wound dry and mossy up the gentle slope of a smooth green hill; so that, although the night closed in upon us ere half our journey was completed, we arrived at Knowehead without farther accident than one capsize (the beauty of slipping consists in the impossibility of breaks down), and so far from being the worse of my “sail,” I felt actually stronger than on leaving the Grange; nevertheless I was put to bed, where I continued for a week.
Next day brought intelligence of the wrecking of Moyabel in the search for the rebel general and the sick Frenchman: our measures had been so well taken, however, that no suspicion attached itself to Knowehead. I learned from Peggy, so soon as her lamentations subsided, that Mr O’More was a south country gentleman, who had married her master’s sister, and that Madeline was his only child; that this had been his first visit to the north since the death of his lady, which had taken place at her brother’s house, but that Moyabel had long been the resort of his friends and emissaries. The old woman left Knowehead that night, and I learned no more; for Jenny (who remained with Miss Janet) had been so busy with her care of Aleck during his illness, and afterwards so unwell herself, that she knew nothing more than I.
Another week completely re-established me in my strength; but the craving that had never left me since the last sight of Madeline, kept me still restless and impatient. Meanwhile Aleck’s courtship had ripened in the golden sun of matrimony, and the wedding took place on the next Monday morning. He was a favourite with all at Knowehead, and the event was celebrated by a dance of all the young neighbours. After witnessing the leaping and flinging in the barn for half an hour, I retired to Miss Janet’s parlour, where I was lolling away the evening on her high-backed sofa, along with the old gentleman, who, driven from his capitol in the kitchen by the bustle of the day, had installed himself in the unwonted state of an embroidered arm-chair beside me. We were projecting a grand coursing campaign before I should leave the country, and listening to the frequent bursts of merriment from the barn and kitchen, when little Davie came in to tell his master that “Paul Ingram was speerin’ gain he wad need ony tey, or brendy, or prime pigtail, or Virginney leaf.”
“I do not just approve of Paul’s line of trade,” observed the old man, turning to me; “for I’m thinking his commodities come oftener frae the smuggler’s cave than the king’s store; but he’s a merry deevil, Paul, and has picked up a braw hantle o’ mad ballads ae place and another; some frae Glen—— here, some frae Galloway, some frae the Isle o’ Man, and some queer lingos he can sing, that he says he learned frae the Frenchmen.”
A sudden thought struck me. “I will go out and get him to sing some to me, sir.”—“Is Rab Halliday there, Davie?” inquired he.
“Oh aye, sir,” said Davie; “it’s rantin’ Rab that ye hear roarin’ e’en noo.”
“Weel, tell him, Davie, that here’s Mr William, wha has learned to speel Parnassus by a step-ladder, has come to hear the sang he made about my grandmither’s wooin’.”
Accordingly Davie ushered me to the kitchen. I could distinguish through the reaming fumes of liquor and tobacco about half a dozen of carousers; they were chorusing at the full stretch of their lungs the song of a jolly fellow in one corner, who, nodding, winking, and flourishing his palms, in that state of perfect bliss “that good ale brings men to,” was lilting up
“Till the house be rinnin’ round about,
It’s time enough to flit;
When we fell, we aye gat up again,
And sae will we yet!”