* * * * *

The fugitive.

A scotch tale.

(For the Mirror.)

It was now abute the gloaming when my ain same Janet (heav’n sain her saul) was sitting sae bieldy in a bit neuk ayant the ingle, while the winsome weans gathering around their minnie were listing till some auld spae wife’s tale o’ ghaists and worriecows; when on a sudden some ane tirled at the door pin.

“Here’s your daddie, bairns,” said the gudewife ganging till the door; but i’ place o’ their daddie, a tall chiel wrappit i’ a big cloak, rushed like a fire flaught into the bield, and drappit doun on the sunkie ewest the ingle droghling and coghling.

“What’s your wull, friend?” said Janet, glowering on him a’ i’ a gliff, “the gudeman’s awa.”

“Save me, save me,” shrieghed the stranger, “the sleuth hounds are at my heels.”

“But wha may ye be, maister,” cried the dame, “I durstna dee your bidding while Jamie’s frae the hause.”

“Oh, dinna speir, dinna speir mistress,” exclaimed the chiel a’ in a curfuffle, “ainly for the loe of heav’n, hide me frae the red coats whilk are comin’ belive—­O God, they are here,” he cried, as I entered the shealing, and uttering a piercing skirl, he sprung till the wa’, and thrawing aff his cloak, drew his broad claymore, whilk glittered fearsome by the low o’ the ingle.

“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.”