her, a month before--she saw nothing but the vice and
its victim, and she seized him by the collar, with a grasp from which he
in vain attempted to shake himself loose.

"No! ye'll no gang there at siccan a time."

"Hands off, ye daft jaud," roared he, "or there'll be another deeth i'
the toon."

At the noise Jean Carnie ran in.

"Let the ruffian go," cried she, in dismay. "Oh, Christie, dinna put
your hand on a lion's mane."

"Yes, I'll put my hand on his mane, ere I'll let him mak a beast o'
himsel'."

"Sandy, if ye hurt her, I'll find twenty lads that will lay ye deed at
her feet."

"Haud your whisht," said Christie, very sharply, "he's no to be
threetened."

Sandy Liston, black and white with rage, ground his teeth together, and
said, lifting his hand, "Wull ye let me go, or must I tak my hand till
ye?"

"No!" said Christie, "I'll no let ye go, _sae look me i' the face;
Flucker's dochter, your auld comrade, that saved your life at Holy Isle,
think o' his face--an' look in mines--an' strike me!!!"_

They glared on one another--he fiercely and unsteadily; she firmly and
proudly.

Jean Carnie said afterward, "Her eyes were like coals of fire."

"Ye are doing what nae mon i' the toon daur; ye are a bauld, unwise
lassy."

"It's you mak me bauld," was the instant reply. "I saw ye face the mad
sea, to save a ship fra' the rocks, an' will I fear a mon's hand, when I
can save" _(rising to double her height)_ "my feyther's auld freend fra'
the puir mon's enemy, the enemy o' mankind, the cursed, cursed drink?
Oh, Sandy Liston, hoow could ye think to put an enemy in your mooth to
steal awa your brains!"

"This 's no Newhaven chat; wha lairns ye sic words o' power?"

"A deed mon!"

"I would na wonder, y' are no canny; she's ta'en a' the poower oot o' my
body, I think." Then suddenly descending to a tone of abject submission,
"What's your pleesure, Flucker Johnstone's dochter?"

She instantly withdrew the offending grasp, and, leaning affectionately
on his shoulder, she melted into her rich Ionic tones.

"It's no a time for sin; ye'll sit by my fire, an' get your dinner; a
bonny haggis hae I for you an' Flucker, an' we'll improve this sorrowfu'
judgment; an' ye'll tell me o' auld times--o' my feyther dear, that
likeit ye weel, Sandy--o' the storrms ye hae weathered, side by side--o'
the muckle whales ye killed Greenland way--an' abune a', o' the lives ye
hae saved at sea, by your daurin an' your skell; a