‘Na, na, haud your tongue there; my master has nae name,’ said Charlie: ‘He has a good speaking name, an’ ane he disna think shame o’, but nae name for black an’ white.’
‘I’ll show you it,’ said Lady Jane.
‘Na, ye needna fash,’ said Charlie; ‘I fear it wad be unmannerly in me to doubt a lord’s word.’
‘How soon could you carry us to Edinborough?’ inquired Lady Jane, anxious to keep muckle Charlie in the humour of taking her any where save into the hands of Douglas.
‘That’s rather a question to speer at Corby than me,’ said Charlie; ‘but I think if we miss drowning i’ Tweed, an’ breaking our necks o’er the Red-brae, an’ sinking out o’ sight i’ Soutra-flow, that I could tak in hand to hae ye in Edinborough afore twal o’clock at night––. Bad things for you, Corby.’
‘Never say another word about it then,’ said Lady Jane; ‘the rest are quite gone before us, and out of sight. Turn to the left, and ride for Edinborough. Think of the five hundred cows and five thousand sheep.’
‘Oh, that last beats a’!’ said Charlie. ‘Five thousand sheep! how mony is that? Five score’s a hunder – I’m sure o’ that. Every hunder’s five score; then – and how mony hunder maks a thousand––?’
‘Ten,’ said the page, who was forced to laugh at Charlie’s arithmetic.
‘Ten?’ repeated Charlie. ‘Then ten times five hunder that maks but ae thousand; an’ other ten times five hunder – D––n me if I ken how mony is o’ them ava. What does it signify for a man to hae mair gear than he can count? I fancy we had better jogg on the gate we’re gaun, Corby.’
‘I am sure, friend, ye never had such a chance of being rich,’ said Lady Jane, ‘and may never, in all likelihood, have such a chance again.’
‘That is a’ true ye’re saying, my lord, an’ a sair heart it has gi’en me,’ said Charlie; ‘but your offer’s ower muckle, an’ that maks me dread there’s something at the bottom o’t that I dinna comprehend. Gude faith, an the warden war to suffer danger or disgrace for my greed o’ siller, it wad be a bonny story! Corby, straight on, ye dog: ding the brains out o’ the gutters, clear for the camp, ye hellicat of an English hound. What are ye snoring an’ cocking your lugs at? Od an ye get company like yoursel, ye carena what mischief ye carry your master into. Get on, I say, an’ dinna gie me time to hear another word or think about this business again.’
The young lady began here to lose heart, seeing that Charlie had plucked up a determination. But her companion attacked him in her turn with all the flattery and fair promises she could think of, till Charlie found his heart again beginning to waver and calculate; so that he had no other shift but to croon a border war-song, that he might not hear this dangerous conversation. Still the page persevered, till Charlie, losing all patience, cried out as loud and as bitterly as he could, ‘Haud your tongue, ye slee-gabbit limb o’ the auld ane. D––n ye, d’ye think a man’s conscience is to be hadden abreed like the mou’ of a sack, an’ crammed fu’ o’ beef an’ mutton whether he will or no? Corby, another nicker an’ another snore, lad, an’ we’ll soon see you aff at the gallop.’
Thus ended the trying colloquy between muckle Charlie Scott o’ Yardbire and his two prisoners; the rest of his conversation was to Corby, whom he forthwith pushed on by spur and flattery to the camp.
When the truth came to be discovered, many puzzled themselves endeavouring to guess what Charlie would actually have done had he known by the way what a treasure he had in his arms – the greatest beauty, and the greatest heiress in England; – for Charlie was as notable for kindness and generosity as he was for bodily strength; and, besides, he was poor, as he frankly acknowledged; but then he only wished for riches to be able to keep more men for the service of his chief. Some thought he would have turned his horse round without further ceremony, and carried her straight to Yardbire, on purpose to keep her there for a wife; others thought he would have risked his neck, honour, and every thing, and restored her again to her friends. But it was impossible for any of them to guess what he would have done, as it was proved afterwards that Charlie could not guess himself. When the truth came to be divulged, and was first told to him, his mouth, besides becoming amazingly extended in its dimensions, actually grew four-square with astonishment; and when asked what he would have done had he known, he smacked his lips, and wiped them with the back of his hand as if his teeth had been watering – and, laughing to himself with a chuckling sound, like a moor-cock, he turned about his back to conceal his looks, and only answered with these emphatic words: ‘Gude faith, it was as well I didna ken.’
CHAPTER SIX
Some write of preclair conquerouris,
And some of vallyeant emperouris,
And some of nobill mychtie kingis,
That royally did reull the ringis;
And some of squyris douchty deidis,
That wonderis wrocht in weirly weidis;
Sa I intand the best I can
Descryve the deidis and the man.
Sir Dav. Lindsaye
Wald God I war now in Pitcary!
Becass I haif bene se ill deidy.
Adew! I dar na langer tairy,
I dried I waif intill ane widdy.
Ibid
IN THE SAME grotesque guise as formerly described, Charlie at length came with his two prisoners to the outposts of the Scottish army. The rest of the train had passed by before him, and warned their friends who was coming, and in what stile; for no one thought it worth his while to tarry with Charlie and his overloaden horse. When he came near the soldiers they hurra’d, and waved their bonnets, and gathering about Charlie in crowds, they would not let him onward. Besides, some fell a loosing the prisoner behind him, and others holding up their arms to release him of the one he carried before; and, seeing how impatient he was, and how determined to keep his hold, they grew still more importunate in frolic. But it had nearly cost some of them dear; for Charlie, growing wroth, squeezed the Lady Jane so strait with the left arm, that she was forced to cry out; and putting his right over his shoulder, he drew out his tremendous two-hand sword. ‘Now stand back, devils,’ cried Charlie, ‘or, gude faith, I’ll gar Corby ride ower the taps o’ the best o’ ye. I hae had ower sair a trial for heart o’ flesh already; but when I stood that, it sanna be the arm o’ flesh that takes them frae me now, till I gie them into the Douglas’s ain hands. Stand back, ye devils; a Scott never gies up his trust as lang as his arm can dimple at the elbow.’
The soldiers flew away from around him like a flight of geese, and with the same kind of noise too – every one being giggling and laughing – and up rode Charlie to the door of the Douglas’ pavilion, where he shouted aloud for the captain. Douglas, impatient to see his illustrious prisoner, left the others abruptly, and hasted out at Charlie’s call.
‘Gude faith, my lord,’ said Charlie, ‘I beg your pardon for garring you come running out that gate; but here’s a bit English lord for ye, an’ his henchman – sic master, sic man, as the saying is. There war terrible charges gi’en about them, sae I thought I wad secure them, an’ gie them into your ain hands.’
‘I am much beholden to you, gallant Yardbire,’ said Douglas: ‘The care and pains you have taken shall not be forgotten.’
This encouraging Charlie, he spoke to the earl with great freedom, who was mightily diverted with his manner, as well as with his mode of securing the prisoners.
‘There’s his lordship for ye,’ said Charlie, holding him out like a small bale of goods: ‘Mind ye hae gotten him safe off my hand; an’ here’s another chap I hae fastened to my back. An a’ the English nobles war like thir twa, I hae been