TOUR TO NORTH-WEST HIGHLANDS. 137 



Alister. And what will ta Sassenach gi'e to her 

 nain sel' ? 



Swivel. Make an honest demand, Alister. 



Alister. Twa guineas frae sic shentlemans, shure 

 enough ? 



Swivel. Get thee to bed, greedy hound ! thou 

 shalt not see a doit of mine. Away, bare-faced, lazy- 

 boned rascal ! we have no need of thee. Put wind 

 into thy sporran, and make a bagpipe o't. Come along, 

 Bill, and leave that boor to learn modesty. 



(Alister Macdonald shuts the door, muttering a curse in Gaelic.) 



May. Another specimen of these western Celts ! 

 rude, abject, and rapacious. They have neither 

 conscience nor good-feeling. Marked you how that 

 miserable wretch shook with sheer terror, as he dis- 

 played himself cautiously at the entrance of his hovel, 

 after the long colloquy held with his helpmate 

 under the blankets, during which, I have no doubt, 

 they both convinced themselves of our intention to 

 rob and murder them ? 



Swivel. Very likely, Bill, but we must now retrace 

 our steps ; for the inn, I feel assured, lies not in this 

 direction, and as for obtaining a night's lodgings 

 elsewhere, 'tis out of all likelihood, judging from the 

 reception we have just met with. Quick march, Bill ! 

 what ails thee, thou man of valour ? 



May. What ails a wind-broken horse or a jaded 



hound ? I am desperately flagged, Doctor, quite 



10 



