“Deil’s in the fallow,” said Jenny, wiping her lips and adjusting her head-dress, “he has twice the spunk o’ Tam Halliday, after a’.—Coming, my leddy, coming—Lord have a care o’ us, I trust the auld leddy didna see us!”
“Jenny,” said Lady Margaret, as the damsel came up, “was not that young man who commanded the party the same that was captain of the popinjay, and who was afterwards prisoner at Tillietudlem on the morning Claverhouse came there?”
Jenny, happy that the query had no reference to her own little matters, looked at her young mistress, to discover, if possible, whether it was her cue to speak truth or not. Not being able to catch any hint to guide her, she followed her instinct as a lady’s maid, and lied.
“I dinna believe it was him, my leddy,” said Jenny, as confidently as if she had been saying her catechism; “he was a little black man, that.”
“You must have been blind, Jenny,” said the Major: “Henry Morton is tall and fair, and that youth is the very man.”
“I had ither thing ado than be looking at him,” said Jenny, tossing her head; “he may be as fair as a farthing candle, for me.”
“Is it not,” said Lady Margaret, “a blessed escape which we have made, out of the hands of so desperate and bloodthirsty a fanatic?”
“You are deceived, madam,” said Lord Evandale; “Mr Morton merits such a title from no one, but least from us. That I am now alive, and that you are now on your safe retreat to your friends, instead of being prisoners to a real fanatical homicide, is solely and entirely owing to the prompt, active, and energetic humanity of this young gentleman.”
He then went into a particular narrative of the events with which the reader is acquainted, dwelling upon the merits of Morton, and expatiating on the risk at which he had rendered them these important services, as if he had been a brother instead of a rival.
“I were worse than ungrateful,” he said, “were I silent on the merits of the man who has twice saved my life.”