Adventure stories; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
Whereupon (I giving my arm to Catriona) we left the house of this
unpalatable rascal. She had said no word throughout, leaving me to
judge and speak in her place; I, upon my side, had been careful not to
embarrass her by a glance; and even now, although my heart still glowed
inside of me with shame and anger, I made it my affair to seem quite
easy.
“Now,” said I, “let us get back to yon same inn where they can speak
the French, have a piece of dinner, and inquire for conveyances to
Rotterdam. I will never be easy till I have you safe again in the hands
of Mrs. Gebbie.”
“I suppose it will have to be,” said Catriona, “though whoever will be
pleased, I do not think it will be her. And I will remind you this once
again that I have but one shilling, and three baubees.”
“And just this once again,” said I, “I will remind you it was a
blessing that I came alongst with you.”
“What else would I be thinking all this time?” says she, and I thought
weighed a little on my arm. “It is you that are the good friend to me.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
TRAVELS IN HOLLAND
The rattel-waggon, which is a kind of a long waggon set with benches,
carried us in four hours of travel to the great city of Rotterdam. It
was long past dark by then, but the streets were pretty brightly
lighted and thronged with wild-like, outlandish characters—bearded
Hebrews, black men, and the hordes of courtesans, most indecently
adorned with finery and stopping seamen by their very sleeves; the
clash of talk about us made our heads to whirl; and what was the most
unexpected of all, we appeared to be no more struck with all these
foreigners than they with us. I made the best face I could, for the
lass’s sake and my own credit; but the truth is I felt like a lost
sheep, and my heart beat in my bosom with anxiety. Once or twice I
inquired after the harbour or the berth of the ship _Rose_: but either
fell on some who spoke only Hollands, or my own French failed me.
Trying a street at a venture, I came upon a lane of lighted houses, the
doors and windows thronged with wauf-like painted women; these jostled
and mocked upon us as we passed, and I was thankful we had nothing of
their language. A little after we issued forth upon an open place along
the harbour.
“We shall be doing now,” cries I, as soon as I spied masts. “Let us
walk here by the harbour. We are sure to meet some that has the
English, and at the best of it we may light upon that very ship.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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