“We want your prisoner,” said Earnscliff, “to be delivered up to us in safety.”

“And what concern have you with her?” replied the marauder.

“That,” retorted Earnscliff, “you, who are detaining her by force, have no right to enquire.”

“Aweel, I think I can gie a guess,” said the robber.  “Weel, sirs, I am laith to enter into deadly feud with you by spilling ony of your bluid, though Earnscliff hasna stopped to shed mine—­and he can hit a mark to a groat’s breadth—­so, to prevent mair skaith, I am willing to deliver up the prisoner, since nae less will please you.”

“And Hobbie’s gear?” cried Simon of Hackburn.  “D’ye think you’re to be free to plunder the faulds and byres of a gentle Elliot, as if they were an auld wife’s hens’-cavey?”

“As I live by bread,” replied Willie of Westburnflat “As I live by bread, I have not a single cloot o’ them!  They’re a’ ower the march lang syne; there’s no a horn o’ them about the tower.  But I’ll see what o’ them can be gotten back, and I’ll take this day twa days to meet Hobbie at the Castleton wi’ twa friends on ilka side, and see to make an agreement about a’ the wrang he can wyte me wi’.”

“Ay, ay,” said Elliot, “that will do weel eneugh.”—­And then aside to his kinsman, “Murrain on the gear!  Lordsake, man! say nought about them.  Let us but get puir Grace out o’ that auld hellicat’s clutches.”

“Will ye gie me your word, Earnscliff,” said the marauder, who still lingered at the shot-hole, “your faith and troth, with hand and glove, that I am free to come and free to gae, with five minutes to open the grate, and five minutes to steek it and to draw the bolts? less winna do, for they want creishing sairly.  Will ye do this?”

“You shall have full time,” said Earnscliff; “I plight my faith and troth, my hand and my glove.”

“Wait there a moment, then,” said Westburnflat; “or hear ye, I wad rather ye wad fa’ back a pistol-shot from the door.  It’s no that I mistrust your word, Earnscliff; but it’s best to be sure.”

O, friend, thought Hobbie to himself, as he drew back, an I had you but on Turner’s-holm, [There is a level meadow, on the very margin of the two kingdoms, called Turner’s-holm, just where the brook called Crissop joins the Liddel.  It is said to have derived its name as being a place frequently assigned for tourneys, during the ancient Border times.] and naebody by but twa honest lads to see fair play, I wad make ye wish ye had broken your leg ere ye had touched beast or body that belanged to me!

“He has a white feather in his wing this same Westburnflat, after a’,” said Simon of Hackburn, somewhat scandalized by his ready surrender.—­“He’ll ne’er fill his father’s boots.”

In the meanwhile, the inner door of the tower was opened, and the mother of the freebooter appeared in the space betwixt that and the outer grate.  Willie himself was next seen, leading forth a female, and the old woman, carefully bolting the grate behind them, remained on the post as a sort of sentinel.