The Greatest Historical Novels & Romances of D. K. Broster. D. K. Broster

breath came quickly. “But I’ll not be retaken without resistance!”

      “Who says we be gooin’ ti taake thee? Happen we’ve summut else ti moind. Coom here, Lassie, wilt thou! Dunnot be so freendly tiv a chap wi’ a knife in his hand!”

      “I tell you the dog has nothing to fear from me,” repeated Ewen. “See then!” And on a sudden impulse he planted the sgian in the damp soil beside him and left it sticking there.

      “Ah, that’s reet, yoong man—that’s jannock!” exclaimed the large stranger in evident approval and relief. “Happen we can ’ev some clack together noo. Hoo dost thou rackon ti get away fra this tod’s den o’ thine?”

      Here, quite suddenly, the little man began to giggle. “He, he! maakes me laugh to think of it—t’ sogers chasing reet away ower t’ brig and Lord knaws wheer beyond! They nivver coom back, so t’ folk oop yonder tells.”

      “Aye, a good tale to tell when we gan back ower Tyne,” agreed the large man, shaking gently with a more subdued mirth. And as Ewen, for his part, realised that the reference to Tyne must mean that the strangers were English, though he could not imagine what they were doing in Lochaber, this large one burst into a great rumbling upheaval of laughter, causing the sheepdog to bark in sympathy.

      “Quiet, lass!” commanded her master, making a grab at her. “Thy new freend here has no wish for thy noise, Ah’ll lay.” He looked straight at the fugitive sitting there. “Hadn’t thee best get thee gone, lad, before ’tis onny loighter?” he asked.

      Was the man playing with him, or was he genuinely friendly? Ewen’s heart gave a great bound. A momentary mist passed before his eyes. When it cleared the large man was stooping over him, a bottle in his hand.

      “Thoo’rt nigh clemmed, lad, or ma name’s not Robert Fosdyke. Here’s t’ stuff for thee—reet Nantes. Tak’ a good soop of it!”

      The fiery spirit ran like lightning through Ewen’s cramped limbs. “Why . . . why do you treat me so kindly?” he gasped, half stupid between the brandy and astonishment, as he returned the bottle. “You are English, are you not? Why do you not give me up?”

      Mr. Fosdyke, who had now seated himself on a large stone near, struck his knee with some vehemence. “Ah’ll tell thee whoy! First, because t’ bitch here foond thee and took ti thee, and thou didna stick yon knife o’ thine intiv her—but Ah’d ’ev driven in thy skool if thou hadst . . . second, because thou’rt a sharp lad and a bold one, too; and last because Ah’ve seen and heerd tell o’ things yonder at Fort Augustus, wheer we went ti buy cattle, that Ah ’evn’t loiked at all. No, Ah didn’t loike what Ah heerd of goings on.—Aye, and foorthly, t’ cattle was woorth danged little when we’d gotten ’em; all t’ best were sold awready.”

      Ewen knew what cattle they would be; the one possession of many a poor Highland home, as well as the herds of the gentry. He remembered now having heard that some of the many thousands collected from Lochaber and Badenoch were sold to English and Lowland dealers. Apparently, then, these men were on their way south through Glencoe and Breadalbane with such as they had bought, and now he knew why once or twice during this conversation he had fancied that he heard sounds of lowing at no great distance.

      “I wonder if mine are all gone!” he said half to himself.

      “Thou hadst cattle of thy own, lad?” enquired Mr. Fosdyke. “If thou canst see onny o’ thine among oors oop there thou shalt have them back again—and that’s none so generous as thou medst think, for there’s some Ah’d as soon give away as drive all t’ waay ower t’ Border.”

      Ewen gave a weak laugh. “What should I do with cattle now? I cannot get home myself, much less drive cattle there.”

      “And whoy canst thou not get home, when thou’st put summut in thy belly?” asked the Yorkshireman.

      Ewen told him why he should find it difficult, if not impossible, and why he dared not go to the change-house either. The farmer pronounced that he was right in the latter course, and then made the astonishing suggestion that ‘Jan Prescott here’ should run up to the house and bring the fugitive something to eat and drink. “Dunnot say who ’tis for, Jan; say Ah’ve a moind ti eat by river, if thou loikes.” And while Jan, with amazing docility, removed the birch twig which he had been twisting between his lips and betook himself up the bank, his companion questioned Ewen further as to the direction of his home.

      “T’ other soide of t’ other river? T’ other river’s nobbut a couple of moiles away . . . Tell thee what, lad,” he exclaimed, slapping himself once more, “Ah’ll tak thee as far as t’ river on one of t’ nags. Happen thou canst sit a horse still?”

      “Take me there!” Ewen could only stare in amazement.

      “Aye. And when thou’st gotten to this river o’ thine, hoo medst thou cross it; happen there’s brig, or ferry?”

      “No, there is a ford. The ford by which we all . . .” His voice died away. How long ago it seemed, that elated crossing last August after Glenfinnan!

      “And when thou’rt on t’ other soide?” pursued Mr. Fosdyke.

      “I’ll reach my home somehow, if I have to crawl there.”

      “And who’lt thou foind theer—thy parents?”

      “My aunt, who brought me up. My parents are dead.”

      “No wife nor childer?”

      “My wife is in France.” And why he added, “We were only married two days before parting,” Ewen did not know.

      “Poor lad,” said Mr. Fosdyke. “Whoy didstna stop at home loike a wise man?”

      Ewen, his head resting against the boulder, said, “That I could not do,” his eyes meanwhile fixed on the form of Mr. Jan Prescott, already descending the slope with a tankard in his hand and two large bannocks clasped to his person. Mr. Fosdyke turned and hailed him, and in another moment Ewen had started upon the bannocks, finding that he was famished, having tasted nothing solid since the halt at Laggan yesterday morning. And while he ate Mr. Robert Fosdyke unfolded his intention to his companion, who raised no objection, except to remark, “Happen thou’lt meet redcoats on t’ road.”

      “Ah shall say t’ lad’s a drover o’ mine, then.”

      “In yon petticoat thing?” queried Mr. Prescott, pointing at Ewen’s kilt.

      “He shall have thy great-coat ti cover him oop.”

      “Ah dunno hoo he’ll get intiv it, then,” returned Mr. Prescott. “See-ye, Robert, Ah’d sooner he had a horse blanket than split ma coat.”

      “He can have t’ loan of mi coat then,” said Mr. Fosdyke. “He’ll not split that.—Beasts all reet oop there?” he enquired.

      “As reet as ivver they’ll be,” returned his partner with gloom.

      “Ah knawed as we peed too mooch for them,” growled Mr. Fosdyke in a voice like subterranean thunder. “Goviment notice saays—well, nivver moind what, but ’twere main different fra what t’ cattle were loike. Hooivver, Ah weren’t comin’ all the way fra t’ other soide o’ York for nowt.”

      “York?” asked Ewen with his mouth full, since this information seemed addressed to him. “You come from York, sir.”

      “Fra near by. Dost thou knaw the toon?”

      “No,” said Ewen.

      “T’ sogers werena takin’ thee there yistiday?”

      “It was Carlisle that I was going to in the end.”

      “Ah!” said Mr. Fosdyke comprehendingly. “But some poor devils are setting oot for York, too, we hear. Thou’s best coom along wi’ us.” And giving his great laugh he began to embroider his pleasantry. “Thou doesna loike the notion? Whoy not?