Robin Oig M'Combich, go not this day to England!"
"Prutt, trutt," answered Robin Oig, "that will never do neither
--it would be next thing to running the country. For shame,
Muhme--give me the dirk. You cannot tell by the colour the
difference betwixt the blood of a black bullock and a white one,
and you speak of knowing Saxon from Gaelic blood. All men have
their blood from Adam, Muhme. Give me my skene-dhu, and let me
go on my road. I should have been half way to Stirling brig by
this time. Give me my dirk, and let me go."
"Never will I give it to you," said the old woman--"Never will I
quit my hold on your plaid--unless you promise me not to wear
that unhappy weapon."
The women around him urged him also, saying few of his aunt's
words fell to the ground; and as the Lowland farmers continued to
look moodily on the scene, Robin Oig determined to close it at
any sacrifice.
"Well, then," said the young drover, giving the scabbard of the
weapon to Hugh Morrison, "you Lowlanders care nothing for these
freats. Keep my dirk for me. I cannot give it you, because it
was my father's; but your drove follows ours, and I am content it
should be in your keeping, not in mine.
Pages:
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354