CHAPTER VIII.
Now horse and hattock, cried the Laird,—
Now horse and hattock, speedilie;
They that winna ride for Telfer’s kye,
Let them never look in the face o’ me.—Border Ballad.
“Horse! horse! and spear!” exclaimed Hobbie to his kinsmen. Many a ready foot was in the stirrup; and, while Elliot hastily collected arms and accoutrements, no easy matter in such a confusion, the glen resounded with the approbation of his younger friends.
“Ay, ay!” exclaimed Simon of Hackburn, “that’s the gate to take it, Hobbie. Let women sit and greet at hame, men must do as they have been done by; it’s the Scripture says’t.”
“Haud your tongue, sir,” said one of the seniors, sternly; “dinna abuse the Word that gate, ye dinna ken what ye speak about.”
“Hae ye ony tidings?—Hae ye ony speerings, Hobbie?—O, callants, dinna be ower hasty,” said old Dick of the Dingle.
“What signifies preaching to us, e’enow?” said Simon; “if ye canna make help yoursell, dinna keep back them that can.”
“Whisht, sir; wad ye take vengeance or ye ken wha has wrang’d ye?”
“D’ye think we dinna ken the road to England as weel as our fathers before us?—All evil comes out o’ thereaway—it’s an auld saying and a true; and we’ll e’en away there, as if the devil was blawing us south.”
“We’ll follow the track o’ Earnscliff’s horses ower the waste,” cried one Elliot.