A low whistle, and the words, “Hisht, Elshie, hisht!” disturbed him in this melancholy occupation. He looked up, and the Red Reiver of Westburnflat was before him. Like Banquo’s murderer, there was blood on his face, as well as upon the rowels of his spurs and the sides of his over-ridden horse.
“How now, ruffian!” demanded the Dwarf, “is thy job chared?”
“Ay, ay, doubt not that, Elshie,” answered the freebooter; “When I ride, my foes may moan. They have had mair light than comfort at the Heugh-foot this morning; there’s a toom byre and a wide, and a wail and a cry for the bonny bride.”
“The bride?”
“Ay; Charlie Cheat-the-Woodie, as we ca’ him, that’s Charlie Foster of Tinning Beck, has promised to keep her in Cumberland till the blast blaw by. She saw me, and kend me in the splore, for the mask fell frae my face for a blink. I am thinking it wad concern my safety if she were to come back here, for there’s mony o’ the Elliots, and they band weel thegither for right or wrang. Now, what I chiefly come to ask your rede in, is how to make her sure?”
“Wouldst thou murder her, then?”
“Umph! no, no; that I would not do, if I could help it. But they say they can whiles get folk cannily away to the plantations from some of the outports, and something to boot for them that brings a bonny wench. They’re wanted beyond seas thae female cattle, and they’re no that scarce here. But I think o’ doing better for this lassie. There’s a leddy, that, unless she be a’ the better bairn, is to be sent to foreign parts whether she will or no; now, I think of sending Grace to wait on her—she’s a bonny lassie. Hobbie will hae a merry morning when he comes hame, and misses baith bride and gear.”
“Ay; and do you not pity him?” said the Recluse.
“Wad he pity me were I gaeing up the Castle hill at Jeddart? [ The place of execution at that ancient burgh, where many of Westburnflat’s profession have made their final exit.] And yet I rue something for the bit lassie; but he’ll get anither, and little skaith dune—ane is as gude as anither. And now, you that like to hear o’ splores, heard ye ever o’ a better ane than I hae had this morning?”
“Air, ocean, and fire,” said the Dwarf, speaking to himself, “the earthquake, the tempest, the volcano, are all mild and moderate, compared to the wrath of man. And what is this fellow, but one more skilled than others in executing the end of his existence?—Hear me, felon, go again where I before sent thee.”