“Is it to me you propose once more to mix in the society of the common herd?” said the Recluse, with an air of deep disgust.

“Commons!” retorted Hobbie, “nae siccan commons neither; the Elliots hae been lang kend a gentle race.”

“Hence! begone!” reiterated the Dwarf; “may the same evil luck attend thee that thou hast left behind with me!  If I go not with you myself, see if you can escape what my attendants, Wrath and Misery, have brought to thy threshold before thee.”

“I wish ye wadna speak that gate,” said Hobbie.  “Ye ken yoursell, Elshie, naebody judges you to be ower canny; now, I’ll tell ye just ae word for a’—­ye hae spoken as muckle as wussing ill to me and mine; now, if ony mischance happen to Grace, which God forbid, or to mysell; or to the poor dumb tyke; or if I be skaithed and injured in body, gudes, or gear, I’ll no forget wha it is that it’s owing to.”

“Out, hind!” exclaimed the Dwarf; “home! home to your dwelling, and think on me when you find what has befallen there.”

“Aweel, aweel,” said Hobbie, mounting his horse, “it serves naething to strive wi’ cripples,—­they are aye cankered; but I’ll just tell ye ae thing, neighbour, that if things be otherwise than weel wi’ Grace Armstrong, I’se gie you a scouther if there be a tar-barrel in the five parishes.”

So saying, he rode off; and Elshie, after looking at him with a scornful and indignant laugh, took spade and mattock, and occupied himself in digging a grave for his deceased favourite.

A low whistle, and the words, “Hisht, Elshie, hisht!” disturbed him in this melancholy occupation.  He looked up, and the Red Reiver of Westburnflat was before him.  Like Banquo’s murderer, there was blood on his face, as well as upon the rowels of his spurs and the sides of his over-ridden horse.

“How now, ruffian!” demanded the Dwarf, “is thy job chared?”

“Ay, ay, doubt not that, Elshie,” answered the freebooter; “When I ride, my foes may moan.  They have had mair light than comfort at the Heugh-foot this morning; there’s a toom byre and a wide, and a wail and a cry for the bonny bride.”

“The bride?”

“Ay; Charlie Cheat-the-Woodie, as we ca’ him, that’s Charlie Foster of Tinning Beck, has promised to keep her in Cumberland till the blast blaw by.  She saw me, and kend me in the splore, for the mask fell frae my face for a blink.  I am thinking it wad concern my safety if she were to come back here, for there’s mony o’ the Elliots, and they band weel thegither for right or wrang.  Now, what I chiefly come to ask your rede in, is how to make her sure?”

“Wouldst thou murder her, then?”

“Umph! no, no; that I would not do, if I could help it.  But they say they can whiles get folk cannily away to the plantations from some of the outports, and something to boot for them that brings a bonny wench.  They’re wanted beyond seas thae female cattle, and they’re no that scarce here.  But I think o’ doing better for this lassie.  There’s a leddy, that, unless she be a’ the better bairn, is to be sent to foreign parts whether she will or no; now, I think of sending Grace to wait on her—­she’s a bonny lassie.  Hobbie will hae a merry morning when he comes hame, and misses baith bride and gear.”