Having thus set folks’ minds at rest, we came down the brae, and were met at the yard gate (for this place was like a well-doing farm) by a tall, handsome man of more than fifty, who cried out to Alan in the Gaelic.
“James Stewart,” said Alan, “I will ask ye to speak in Scotch, for here is a young gentleman with me that has nane of the other. This is him,” he added, putting his arm through mine, “a young gentleman of the Lowlands, and a laird in his country too, but I am thinking it will be the better for his health if we give his name the go-by.”
James of the Glens turned to me for a moment, and greeted me courteously enough; the next he had turned to Alan.
“This has been a dreadful accident,” he cried. “It will bring trouble on the country.” And he wrung his hands.
“Hoots!” said Alan, “ye must take the sour with the sweet, man. Colin Roy is dead, and be thankful for that!”
“Ay,” said James, “and by my troth, I wish he was alive again! It’s all very fine to blow and boast beforehand; but now it’s done, Alan; and who’s to bear the wyte[1] of it? The accident fell out in Appin—mind ye that, Alan; it’s Appin that must pay; and I am a man that has a family.”
While this was going on I looked about me at the
- ↑ Blame.
