‘What if thy friend, Dick Gardener, comes not back again?’ said Jephson to Skelton.
‘Why, then,’ said the person addressed, ‘I shall owe him just such a licking as thou, old Jephson, had from Dan Cooke, and will pay as duly and truly as he did.’
The old man was about to make an angry reply, when his doubts were silenced by the return of Dick Gardener, who announced that Miss Arthuret was coming herself as far as the gateway to speak with them.
Nanty Ewart cursed in a low tone the suspicions of old maids and the churlish scruples of Catholics, that made so many obstacles to helping a fellow creature, and wished Miss Arthuret a hearty rheumatism or toothache as the reward of her excursion; but the lady presently appeared, to cut short further grumbling. She was attended by a waiting-maid with a lantern, by means of which she examined the party on the outside, as closely as the imperfect light, and the spars of the newly-erected gate, would permit.
‘I am sorry we have disturbed you so late, Madam Arthuret,’ said Nanty; ‘but the case is this’—
‘Holy Virgin,’ said she, ‘why do you speak so loud? Pray, are you not the captain of the SAINTE GENEVIEVE?’
‘Why, aye, ma’am,’ answered Ewart, ‘they call the brig so at Dunkirk, sure enough; but along shore here, they call her the JUMPING JENNY.’
‘You brought over the holy Father Buonaventure, did you not?’
‘Aye, aye, madam, I have brought over enough of them black cattle,’ answered Nanty. ‘Fie! fie! friend,’ said Miss Arthuret; ‘it is a pity that the saints should commit these good men to a heretic’s care.’
‘Why, no more they would, ma’am,’ answered Nanty, ‘could they find a Papist lubber that knew the coast as I do; then I am trusty as steel to owners, and always look after cargo—live lumber, or dead flesh, or spirits, all is one to me; and your Catholics have such d—d large hoods, with pardon, ma’am, that they can sometimes hide two faces under them. But here is a gentleman dying, with letters about him from the Laird of Summertrees to the Laird of the Lochs, as they call him, along Solway, and every minute he lies here is a nail in his coffin.’