“Revenge!” said a hollow voice, proceeding from the chief of the party. “I have you now in my power—the first time after a search of eight hundred years.”
“What have I done? I never did you a mischief; if I did, I’m willing to pay damages, assessed by your own surveyor.”
“Your ancestor, Fin of the crooked finger, stabbed my ancestor, Kenneth of the flat nose, as he dined with him in this hall in the reign of Fergus the First—give me back his blood.”
“Can’t, indeed—haven’t a drop of it, or any one else’s blood; but I will pay the worth of it—only spare my life.”
“Fash-na-Cairn may spare, but on one condition—you have a sister.”
“Oh no, indeed he hasn’t, sir,” said Miss Alice, “she died when she was quite a baby.”
“Speak, dog,” said the ruthless Fash-na-Cairn, kicking Copus as he lay on the carpet; “who is the sister of Ben-na-Groich?”
“That ’ere middle-aged lady with the red nose. That’s our Miss Alice.”
“She must be Fash-na-Cairn’s bride, or the wolf’s skin must cover Ben-na-Groich.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” sighed the disconsolate lady, “will nothing do but that?”