Adventure stories; Scotland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
“Little else of it since I ever came out of France!” says he, “forby a
bit of a speciment one night in Scotland in a shaw of wood by
Silvermills. But cheer up, my dear! ye’re bonnier than what he said.
And now there’s one thing sure; you and me are to be a pair of friends.
I’m a kind of a henchman to Davie here; I’m like a tyke at his heels;
and whatever he cares for, I’ve got to care for too—and by the holy
airn! they’ve got to care for me! So now you can see what way you stand
with Alan Breck, and ye’ll find ye’ll hardly lose on the transaction.
He’s no very bonnie, my dear, but he’s leal to them he loves.”
“I thank you from my heart for your good words,” said she. “I have that
honour for a brave, honest man that I cannot find any to be answering
with.”
Using travellers’ freedom, we spared to wait for James More, and sat
down to meat, we threesome. Alan had Catriona sit by him and wait upon
his wants: he made her drink first out of his glass, he surrounded her
with continual kind gallantries, and yet never gave me the most small
occasion to be jealous; and he kept the talk so much in his own hand,
and that in so merry a note, that neither she nor I remembered to be
embarrassed. If any had seen us there, it must have been supposed that
Alan was the old friend and I the stranger. Indeed, I had often cause
to love and to admire the man, but I never loved or admired him better
than that night; and I could not help remarking to myself (what I was
sometimes rather in danger of forgetting) that he had not only much
experience of life, but in his own way a great deal of natural ability
besides. As for Catriona, she seemed quite carried away; her laugh was
like a peal of bells, her face gay as a May morning; and I own,
although I was well pleased, yet I was a little sad also, and thought
myself a dull, stockish character in comparison of my friend, and very
unfit to come into a young maid’s life, and perhaps ding down her
gaiety.
But if that was like to be my part, I found that at least I was not
alone in it; for, James More returning suddenly, the girl was changed
into a piece of stone. Through the rest of that evening, until she made
an excuse and slipped to bed, I kept an eye upon her without cease; and
I can bear testimony that she never smiled, scarce spoke, and looked
mostly on the board in front of her. So that I really marvelled to see
so much devotion (as it used to be) changed into the very sickness of
hate.
Of James More it is unnecessary to say much; you know the man already,
what there was to know of him; and I am weary of writing out his lies.
Enough that he drank a great deal, and told us very little that was to
any possible purpose. As for the business with Alan, that was to be
reserved for the morrow and his private hearing.
It was the more easy to be put off, because Alan and I were pretty
weary with four day’s ride, and sat not very late after Catriona.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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