"I can manage the trooper weel eneugh," she said, "for as rough as he is—I ken their nature weel; but ye maunna say a single word."
She accordingly opened the door of the gallery just as the sentinel had turned his back from it, and taking up the tune which he hummed, she sung in a coquettish tone of rustic raillery,
"If I were to follow a poor sodger lad, My friends wad be angry, my minnie be mad; A laird, or a lord, they were fitter for me, Sae I'll never be fain to follow thee."—
"A fair challenge, by Jove," cried the sentinel, turning round, "and from two at once; but it's not easy to bang the soldier with his bandoleers;" then taking up the song where the damsel had stopt,
"To follow me ye weel may be glad, A share of my supper, a share of my bed, To the sound of the drum to range fearless and free, I'll gar ye be fain to follow me."—
"Come, my pretty lass, and kiss me for my song."
"I should not have thought of that, Mr Halliday," answered Jenny, with a look and tone expressing just the necessary degree of contempt at the proposal, "and, I'se assure ye, ye'll hae but little o' my company unless ye show gentler havings—It wasna to hear that sort o'nonsense that brought me here wi' my friend, and ye should think shame o' yoursell, 'at should ye."
"Umph! and what sort of nonsense did bring you here then, Mrs Dennison?"
"My kinswoman has some particular business with your prisoner, young Mr Harry Morton, and I am come wi' her to speak till him."
"The devil you are!" answered the sentinel; "and pray, Mrs Dennison, how do your kinswoman and you propose to get in? You are rather too plump to whisk through a keyhole, and opening the door is a thing not to be spoke of."