"Hauld, hauld, 'tis the gudeman his nainsell," shreighed Janet, when the
stranger drapping the point o' the sword, clingit till my hand, and
while the scauding tear draps tricklit adoun his face prigged me to fend
him.

"Tak' your certie o' that my braw callant," said I, "ne'er sail it be
tauld o' Jamie Mc-Dougall, that he steeked his door again the puir and
hauseless, an the bluidy sleuth hounds be on ye they'se find it ill
aneugh I trow to get an inkling o' ye frae me, I'se sune shaw 'em the
cauld shouther."

Sae saying, I gared him climb a rape by whilk he gat abune the riggin o'
the bield, then steeking to the door thro' whilk he gaed, I jimp had
trailed doun the rape, when in rinned twa red coat chiels, who couping
ilka ane i' their gait begun to touzle out the ben, and the de'il gaed
o'er Jock Wabster.

"Eh, sirs! eh, sirs!" cried I, "whatna gaits' that to steer a bodie, wad
ye harry a puir chiel o' a' his warldly gear, shame till ye, shame till
ye, shank yoursell's awa."

"Fusht, fusht, fallow," cried ane o' the churls, "nane o' your bourds
wi' us, or ye may like to be the waur aff; where is the faus loon? we
saw him gae doun the loaning afore the shealing, and here he maun needs
be."

"Aweel, sirs," I exclaimed, "ye see there isna ony creatur here, our
nainsell's out-taken; seek again an ye winna creed a bodie; may be the
bogle is jumpit into the pot on the rundle-tree ower the ingle, or
creepit into the meal ark or aiblins it scoupit thro' the hole as ye cam
in at the door. Ye may threep and threep and wampish your arms abute, as
muckle as ye wuss, ye silly gowks, I canna tell ye mair an I wad."

"May be the Highland tyke is right, cummer, (said one o' the red coats)
and the fallow is jumpit thro' the bole, but harkye maister gudeman, an
ye hae ony mair o' your barns-breaking wi us, ye'se get a sark fu' o'
sair banes, that's a'."

"Hear till him, hear till him, Janet," said I, as the twa southron
chiels gaed thro' the hole, trailing their bagganets alang wi' 'em;
"winna the puir tykes hae an unco saft couch o' it, think ye, luckie, O
'tis a gude sight for sair e'en to see 'em foundering and powtering i'
the latch o' the bit bog aneath."

"Nane o' your clashes e'enow, gudemon," said she, "but let the callant
abune gang his gate while he may."

"Ye're aye cute, dame," I cried, thrawing the bit gy abune, and in a
gliffing, doun jumpit the chiel, and a braw chiel he was sure enough,
siccan my auld e'e