“And all those promises of amendment which you made during your illness forgotten?” continued Elshender.
“All clear away, with the water-saps and panada,” returned the unabashed convalescent. “Ye ken, Elshie, for they say ye are weel acquent wi’ the gentleman,
“When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be,
When the devil was well, the devil a monk was he.”
“Thou say’st true,” said the Solitary; “as well divide a wolf from his appetite for carnage, or a raven from her scent of slaughter, as thee from thy accursed propensities.”
“Why, what would you have me to do? It’s born with me—lies in my very blude and bane. Why, man, the lads of Westburnflat, for ten lang descents, have been reivers and lifters. They have all drunk hard, lived high, taking deep revenge for light offence, and never wanted gear for the winning.”
“Right; and thou art as thorough-bred a wolf,” said the Dwarf, “as ever leapt a lamb-fold at night. On what hell’s errand art thou bound now?”
“Can your skill not guess?”
“Thus far I know,” said the Dwarf, “that thy purpose is bad, thy deed will be worse, and the issue worst of all.”
“And you like me the better for it, Father Elshie, eh?” said Westburnflat; “you always said you did.”
“I have cause to like all,” answered the Solitary, “that are scourges to their fellow-creatures, and thou art a bloody one.”