"Troth she be tat," said John Smith. "She has gotten a wicked slash on ta croon, tat maist spleeted her skull. An' she wad hae peen dead lang or noo an it had na peen for tiss ponny peat plaister tat she putten tilt. Morag tak' her awa' noo, for she has toon her turn, and somesing lighter may serve." "Och, hoch, hoch, tat is fearsome," said Morag, after she had removed the clod from John's head. "She mak's Morag sick ta vera sight o't." "Oich, but tat be easy noo," said John. "Hech, she was joost like an if she had been carryin' a' ta hill o' Lethen Bar on her head." "Poor fellow, poor fellow!" cried the Pensassenach, "that is a fearful cut indeed. But I don't think the skull is fractured. How and where did you get this fearful wound?" "Fare mony a petter man's got more," replied John, yielding up his head into the affectionate hands of Morag, who was now so far recovered as to be able to look more narrowly at it. "Oich, oich, fat a head!" cried the affectionate and feeling girl, shuddering and growing pale, and then bursting into an agony of tears, as she looked upon his gaping wound. "Oich, oich, she'll never do good more! She canna leeve ava, ava!" "Tut, tut!" cried John, with a ghastly smile, that was meant to reassure Morag. "Fat nonsense, tat Morag pe speak! An' she pe traivel a' ta way hame so far, fat for wad she pe deein' noo tat she is at hame?" "Alas, poor fellow!" said the Pensassenach, as she was directing Morag to bind up his head, "I wish I may be able to make this your home. After all our losses and sufferings for our loyalty by those marauding rascals, three days ago, we shall next run the risk of being punished for harbouring a rebel. But no matter. Happen what may, you have large claims upon me, John, and as long as Morag can conceal you here you shall be safe. You have been so short a time away that few people can be aware of it, and still fewer can know the cause of your absence."