“Now then, Andie, you that kens the world, listen to me, and think while ye listen,” said I.  “I know there are great folks in the business, and I make no doubt you have their names to go upon.  I have seen some of them myself since this affair began, and said my say into their faces too.  But what kind of a crime would this be that I had committed? or what kind of a process is this that I am fallen under?  To be apprehended by some ragged John-Hielandmen on August 30th, carried to a rickle of old stones that is now neither fort nor gaol (whatever it once was) but just the gamekeeper’s lodge of the Bass Rock, and set free again, September 23d, as secretly as I was first arrested—­does that sound like law to you? or does it sound like justice? or does it not sound honestly like a piece of some low dirty intrigue, of which the very folk that meddle with it are ashamed?”

“I canna gainsay ye, Shaws.  It looks unco underhand,” says Andie.  “And werenae the folk guid sound Whigs and true-blue Presbyterians I would hae seen them ayont Jordan and Jeroozlem or I would have set hand to it.”

“The Master of Lovat’ll be a braw Whig,” says I, “and a grand Presbyterian.”

“I ken naething by him,” said he.  “I hae nae trokings wi’ Lovats.”

“No, it’ll be Prestongrange that you’ll be dealing with,” said I.

“Ah, but I’ll no tell ye that,” said Andie.

“Little need when I ken,” was my retort.

“There’s just the ae thing ye can be fairly sure of, Shaws,” says Andie.  “And that is that (try as ye please) I’m no dealing wi’ yoursel’; nor yet I amnae goin’ to,” he added.

“Well, Andie, I see I’ll have to be speak out plain with you,” I replied.  And I told him so much as I thought needful of the facts.

He heard me out with serious interest, and when I had done, seemed to consider a little with himself.

“Shaws,” said he at last, “I deal with the naked hand.  It’s a queer tale, and no vary creditable, the way you tell it; and I’m far frae minting that is other than the way that ye believe it.  As for yoursel’, ye seems to me rather a dacent-like young man.  But me, that’s aulder and mair judeecious, see perhaps a wee bit further forrit in the job than what ye can dae.  And here is the maitter clear and plain to ye.  There’ll be nae skaith to yoursel’ if I keep ye here; far frae that, I think ye’ll be a hantle better by it.  There’ll be nae skaith to the kintry—­just ae mair Hielantman hangit—­Gude kens, a guid riddance!  On the ither hand it would be considerable skaith to me if I would let you free.  Sae, speakin’ as a guid Whig, an honest freen’ to you, and an anxious freen’ to my ainsel’, the plain fact is that I think ye’ll just have to bide here wi’ Andie an’ the solans.”

“Andie,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “this Hielantman’s innocent.”

“Ay, it’s a peety about that,” said he.  “But ye see in this warld, the way God made it, we cannae just get a’thing that we want.”