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lodged in the folds of Ids plaid, and held it up, exclaiming, although the weapon gleamed clear and bright in the sun, “Blood, blood——Saxon blood again! 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 skenedhu, 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 Lowanders 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.——Will this do, Muhme?" “It must,” said the old woman——“that is, if the Lowlander is mad enough to carry the knife." The strong westlandman laughed aloud. “Goodwife," said he, “I am Hugh Morrison from Glenae, come of the Manly Morrisons of auld langsyne, that never took short weapon against a man in their lives. And neither needed they: They had their broadswords, and I have this bit supple (showing a formidable cudgel)——for dirking ower the board, I leave that to John Highlandman.——Ye needna snort, none of you Highlanders, and you in especial, Robin. I’ll keep the bit knife, if you are feared for the auld
