"Lang life to yer lordship!" said another.
Each spoke a hearty word and shook hands with him—all except Girnel, who held back, looking on with his right hand in his trouser-pocket. He was one who always took the opposite side—a tolerably honest and trustworthy soul, with a good many knots and pieces of crossgrain in the timber of him. His old Adam was the most essential and thorough of dissenters, always arguing and disputing, especially on theological questions. "Na," said Girnel, "ye maun saitisfee me first wha ye are, an' what ye want o' me. I'm no to be drawn into onything 'at I dinna ken a' aboot afore-han'. I s' no tie mysel' up wi' ony promises. Them 'at gangs whaur they kenna may lan' at the widdie (gallows)."
"Nae doobt," said Malcolm, "yer ain jeedgement's mair to ye nor my word, Girnel; but saw ye ever onything in me 'at wad justifee ye in no lippenin' to that, sae far's it gaed?"
"Ow na! I'm no sayin' that, naither. But what hae ye to shaw anent the privin' o' 't?"
"I have papers signed by my father, the late marquis, and sealed and witnessed by well-known gentlemen of the neighborhood."
"Whaur are they?" said Girnel, holding out his hand.
"I don't carry such valuable things about me," answered Malcolm. "But if you go with the rest you shall see them afterward."
"I'll du naething i' the dark," persisted Girnel. "Whan I see the peppers I'll ken what to du." With a nod of the head as self-important as decisive he turned his back.
"At all events," said Malcolm, "you will say nothing about it before you hear from one of us again?"
"I mak nae promises," answered Girnel from behind his own back.