with a valued friend of his.
"Corby, what's a' this cocking o' your lugs, an' casting up o' your head for, lad? Ye're gaun the wrang road for a battle e'en now. An let you but see the sword an' pree the spur, ye dog, ye wad carry your master to the deil: an' troth, for ought he kens, ye may be carrying him born-head to his honour just now, ye unconscionable tike that ye are."
Corby first laid back one ear and then the other, which Charlie took for a kind answer; and, patting his mane, he continued: "Na, na, Corby; I ken ye hae nae ill designs; but only ye ken ye like a little mischief, an' a bit splutter now an' than."
"That minds me o' the story o' Janet Sandilands an' her son Jock," said Gibby Jordan the philosopher, "when he ruggit her hair, an' raive her bussing. 'That callant sude hae his hide threshed for lifting his hand to his mother,' said one: 'Na, na,' quo Janet, 'he maunna be threshed; Jock has nae ill in his mind, only he likes a tulzie.' She that wad hae a close cog sude keep a hale laiggen, Yardbire; for as the auld saying rins, 'Lippen to a Corby, an' he'll pike out your een.'"
"Shame fa' me gin I see the drift o' your philosophy, Peatstacknowe; but as I'm sure it is weel meant, it sanna be ill ta'en. Corby an' me's twa auld friends, an' we hae a great deal to lippen to ane another. But I wish we had this unsonsy job ower, laird—we're gaun on kittle ground."
"It minds me something o' the fisher that ran away after the Willy-an'-the-wisp," said Jordan: "It's a lang story, but it's weel wordy the hearing."
"If it be a very lang story, we might as weel crack about something else," said Charlie. "My heart's unco muckle turned on this daft job o' prying into the time that's to come, an' on what we're to say to the warlock. Gude saif us, laird, wha's to be the speaker? I wish that fleysome job maunna light on you? For you see, gin we set the deil's Tam to address him, he'll put him mad at the very first. The poet can bring out naething but rhames o' high flown nonsense; an' for mysel, I'm an unco plain matter-o'-fact man, an' better at good straiks than good words. Sae that the matter maun lie atween you an' the friar. What say you to this, Peatstacknowe?"
"Gude troth, Yardbire, an the task light on either of us, it may weel bring me in mind o' the laird o' Glencarthon, when he stack i' the midden at Saint Johnston, an' tint himsel i' the dark entry. The laird, you see, he comes to the door of a sow-house, an' calls out, 'Good people within there, can you tell me the way to the Queen's hostlery?' 'Oogh?' cried the auld sow. The laird repeated his question quite distinctly, which disturbing some o' the pigs, they came to the back o' the door an' fell a murmuring an' squeaking. 'What do you say?' said the laird in his turn: 'I'll thank you if you will not just speak so vehemently.' The pigs went on. 'Oh, I hear you speak Erse in this house,' said the laird; 'but, no matter: thank you for your information, I will try to work my way.' Now you see, Yardbire, like draws aye to like; an' for the friar, wi' his auld warld says, or me, to address the great Master, it wad be a reversing o' nature an' the very order of things. I hae nae hope o' our good success at a', an it warna for that bonnie Delany. If he's a man, an' no just an incarnate deil, he will be delightit wi' her."
"I wish we had her safely at him, laird," said Charlie; "for, troth, do ye see, thae chaps hing about her, an' look at her as gin they wadna care to eat her."
"She brings me amind o' a weelfaurd dink gimmer that wench," said Jordan, "that I aince saw gaun up Sowerhopeburn. There was a tichel o' wallidraggle tup hoggs rinning after her, an' plaguing her, till I was just grieved for the poor beast. At length down there comes a wheel-horned ram, the king o' the flock, an' he taks up his station by the side o' the bonny thing, an' than a' the young ranigalds slinkit away as their noses had been blooding. Then the bonny she thing got peace, for whenever ony o' the rascallions began to jee up his lug, an' draw near her, ae glent o' the auld fellow's ee stoppit him short. Now, Yardbire, I trow it is a shame to see a pretty maid jaumphed an' jur-mummled in that gate: if you will just ride close up to the tae side o' her, I'll tak up the tither, an' we'll gar them keep a due distance. There's nane o' them dares shoulder you aside."
"I doubt, laird, there is something selfish in that plan o' yours," said Charlie; "ye hae a hankering yonder yourself, but ye darena try to make your ain way without ye get me to back ye. Fight dog, fight bane, Peatstacknowe; gin I be to tulzie for a bonny may, I tulzie for my ain hand."
"It wad be sae weel done to chap them back," said Jordan: "See to the metre poet how he's capering an' turning up his mou': Yon fat hypocrite, the warlock friar, is blinking out frae aneath his sanctified ee-brees like a Barbary ape: An' there's the deil's Tam; od I think he'll hae his lang coulter nose stappit into her lug."
"Ride up, neighbour," quoth Charlie, "an' tell them that face to face. I like nae yethering ahint backs. Ane may ward a blow at the breast, but a prod at the back's no fair. A man wears neither ee nor armour there. Ride up, ride up, neighbour, gin you winna tell them a' you have said, I'll e'en tell them mysel."
"Yardbire, I hope ye're no gaen gyte, to breed despite amang the warden's ambassadors to the deil. Stop till I tell you a queer joke that's come into my mind by your speaking about armour ahint. Last year, when the dalesmen were cried out in sic a hurry for the Durham raide, there was ane o' Fairniehirst's troopers got strong breastplates o' steel made to defend his heart. There was ane Brogg Paterson in Hawick, a wag that I kenned weel, was employed to fit the harnessing to the clothes; and learning that the raide was to be early in the morning, an' nae leisure for shifting, an' seeing the trooper so intent on protecting his heart, instead o' putting the steel plates in the inside o' his doublet, Paterson fastened them in the seat of his trews. After passing the Tine, the Scots encamped within a half moon of an impervious brake, and sent out a party of foragers, among whom was this trooper Turnbull. The party were pursued by a body of English horse, and several of them slain; but Turnbull reaching the brake, plunged into it, horse and man. The horse stuck fast, and just as poor Turnbull was trying to extricate himself, by scrambling over the horse's head, an Englishman came riding fiercely up, and struck him such a blow with his lance behind as would have spitted him to the neck,—but hitting right on the steel plate, he made him fly heels-o'er-head over the brake, and into a place of safety. A comrade perceiving, came to assist him, and found Turnbull lying on the ground, repeating to himself these words with the utmost devotion:—"God bless Brogg Paterson in Hawick! God bless Brogg Paterson in Hawick!" "Wherefore that?" said the other. "Because," said Turnbull, "he kend better where my heart lay than I did."
Charlie laughed so heartily at this jocular tale, that he did not expose Gibby Jordan of the Peatstacknowe to his associates at that time; but keeping behind with him he held him in conversation, though he saw that his teeth were watering to be near the fair Delany.
They came that night to a place called Trows, on the English side of the border, but adjoining to the very ridge of the fells. The name of the hind who sojourned there was Jock Robson. He had a good stock both of cows and sheep, being so thoroughly a neutral man that both sides spared him, and both sides trusted him. He gave a night's grass to the driven cattle and sheep from each side, and a night's lodging to the drivers; and for this he exacted kane sheep, or a small cow, which none ever grudged him, because they found themselves so much at home in his house. He would assist either party in catching a prey, and either party in recovering it again, taking rewards from both; and, though both the English and the Scots knew of this, they never trusted him the less, for they knew that what he undertook he would fulfil, but no farther; out of your sight, out of your pay and out of your service with Jock Robson.
At this yeoman's habitation our notable embassy arrived at a late hour, for, though scarcely five o'clock afternoon, it was pitch dark. They called at the door, and out came Jock with a light. The first man that he beheld was the friar.
"Saint Mary's jerkin be about us!" cried Jock Robson, half in sport, half in earnest, "and defend us from our auld black minny's delegates. What seeks Lucky Church amang the hills o' Cheviot, wi' her creeds an' her croons, her trumpery, an' her lang tythes o' sheep an' kye, wild deer, and weathershaker, barndoor an' blackhag fowls? Nought for Minny Church an' her bike here, Sir Monk—naething o' our ain breeding—a' comers an' gangers, like John Nisbet's fat sheep. Howsomever, honest bedesman, I speir ye the auld question,
"Come ye as friend, or come ye as fae?
For sic as ye bring, sic sal ye hae!"