“Why, what would you have me to do?  It’s born with me—­lies in my very blude and bane.  Why, man, the lads of Westburnflat, for ten lang descents, have been reivers and lifters.  They have all drunk hard, lived high, taking deep revenge for light offence, and never wanted gear for the winning.”

“Right; and thou art as thorough-bred a wolf,” said the Dwarf, “as ever leapt a lamb-fold at night.  On what hell’s errand art thou bound now?”

“Can your skill not guess?”

“Thus far I know,” said the Dwarf, “that thy purpose is bad, thy deed will be worse, and the issue worst of all.”

“And you like me the better for it, Father Elshie, eh?” said Westburnflat; “you always said you did.”

“I have cause to like all,” answered the Solitary, “that are scourges to their fellow-creatures, and thou art a bloody one.”

“No—­I say not guilty to that—­lever bluidy unless there’s resistance, and that sets a man’s bristles up, ye ken.  And this is nae great matter, after a’; just to cut the comb of a young cock that has been crawing a little ower crousely.”

“Not young Earnscliff?” said the Solitary, with some emotion.

“No; not young Earnscliff—­not young Earnscliff yet; but his time may come, if he will not take warning, and get him back to the burrow-town that he’s fit for, and no keep skelping about here, destroying the few deer that are left in the country, and pretending to act as a magistrate, and writing letters to the great folk at Auld Reekie, about the disturbed state of the land.  Let him take care o’ himsell.”

“Then it must be Hobbie of the Heugh-foot,” said Elshie.  “What harm has the lad done you?”

“Harm! nae great harm; but I hear he says I staid away from the Ba’spiel on Fastern’s E’en, for fear of him; and it was only for fear of the Country Keeper, for there was a warrant against me.  I’ll stand Hobbie’s feud, and a’ his clan’s.  But it’s not so much for that, as to gie him a lesson not to let his tongue gallop ower freely about his betters.  I trow he will hae lost the best pen-feather o’ his wing before to-morrow morning.—­Farewell, Elshie; there’s some canny boys waiting for me down amang the shaws, owerby; I will see you as I come back, and bring ye a blithe tale in return for your leech-craft.”

Ere the Dwarf could collect himself to reply, the Reiver of Westburnflat set spurs to his horse.  The animal, starting at one of the stones which lay scattered about, flew from the path.  The rider exercised his spurs without moderation or mercy.  The horse became furious, reared, kicked, plunged, and bolted like a deer, with all his four feet off the ground at once.  It was in vain; the unrelenting rider sate as if he had been a part of the horse which he bestrode; and, after a short but furious contest, compelled the subdued animal to proceed upon the path at a rate which soon carried him out of sight of the Solitary.