“Braw trysts that you’ll can keep,” said Alan.  “Ye’ll just mistryst aince and for a’ with the gentry in the bents.  And what for?” he went on with an extreme threatening gravity.  “Just tell me that, my mannie!  Are ye to be speerited away like Lady Grange?  Are they to drive a dirk in your inside and bury ye in the bents?  Or is it to be the other way, and are they to bring ye in with James?  Are they folk to be trustit?  Would ye stick your head in the mouth of Sim Fraser and the ither Whigs?” he added with extraordinary bitterness.

“Alan,” cried I, “they’re all rogues and liars, and I’m with ye there.  The more reason there should be one decent man in such a land of thieves!  My word is passed, and I’ll stick to it.  I said long syne to your kinswoman that I would stumble at no risk.  Do ye mind of that?—­the night Red Colin fell, it was.  No more I will, then.  Here I stop.  Prestongrange promised me my life; if he’s to be mansworn, here I’ll have to die.”

“Aweel, aweel,” said Alan.

All this time we had seen or heard no more of our pursuers.  In truth we had caught them unawares; their whole party (as I was to learn afterwards) had not yet reached the scene; what there was of them was spread among the bents towards Gillane.  It was quite an affair to call them in and bring them over, and the boat was making speed.  They were besides but cowardly fellows:  a mere leash of Highland cattle thieves, of several clans, no gentleman there to be the captain:  and the more they looked at Alan and me upon the beach, the less (I must suppose) they liked the looks of us.

Whoever had betrayed Alan it was not the captain:  he was in the skiff himself, steering and stirring up his oarsmen, like a man with his heart in his employ.  Already he was near in, and the boat scouring—­already Alan’s face had flamed crimson with the excitement of his deliverance, when our friends in the bents, either in despair to see their prey escape them or with some hope of scaring Andie, raised suddenly a shrill cry of several voices.

This sound, arising from what appeared to be a quite deserted coast, was really very daunting, and the men in the boat held water instantly.

“What’s this of it?” sings out the captain, for he was come within an easy hail.

“Freens o’ mine,” says Alan, and began immediately to wade forth in the shallow water towards the boat.  “Davie,” he said, pausing, “Davie, are ye no coming?  I am swier to leave ye.”

“Not a hair of me,” said I.

He stood part of a second where he was to his knees in the salt water, hesitating.

“He that will to Cupar, maun to Cupar,” said he, and swashing in deeper than his waist, was hauled into the skiff, which was immediately directed for the ship.