She turned to escape: I leaped forward, and caught her by the shoulder--"Since ye maun ken, then," she screamed, "by God's providence, she's on the saut water wi' the Square, her father"--I sank back upon the sofa--"wha," she continued in a soothing strain, "has left me to take charge o' your honour's head till ye can gang your lane: A' the ithers are awa, but wee Jeanie and mysell; and ye wadna, surely your honour wadna gang to frichten twa lane weemen, by dwamin' awa that gait, and deein' amang their hands? But save us, if there's no auld Knowehead himsell, wi' that bauld sorner, Aleck Lawther, on a sheltie at his heels, trottin' doon the causey!--Jeanie, hoi, Jeanie, rin and open the yett." I lay back--sick--sick--sick. The old man, booted and spurred, strode in-- "I'm thinkin', Willie, ye hae catched a cloured head?" "If I do not catch a strait-waistcoat, sir, it will be the less matter." "Willie, man," said he, without noticing my comment, "she's weel awa, and you are weel redd--but toss off thae wylie-coats and nightcaps, and lap yoursell up in mensefu' braid-claith; for, donsie as you are, you maun come alang wi' me to Knowehead--there's a troop o' dragoons e'en now on Skyboe side, wi' your creditable namesake at their head, and they'll herry Moyabel frae hearthstane to riggin' before sax hours are gane--best keep frae under a lowin' king-post, and on the outside o' the four wa's o' a prevost.--You're no fit to ride, man; and you couldna thole the jolting o' a wheel-car--but never fear, we'll slip you hame upon a feather-bed.--Nae denial, Willie--here, draw on your coat: now, that's something purpose-like--cram thae flim-flams into a poke, my bonny Jean, and fetch me a handkerchief to tie about his head: Come, Willie, take my arm--come awa, come awa."