bonny bit lass. Man, Robert, she
was heir general to the province, baith the Lordship o' Gallowa' and
the Earldom o' Wigton, for thae twa can gang to a lassie. But as soon
as the twa laddies were oot o' the road, Fat Jamie o' Avondale cam'
into the Yerldom o' Douglas and a' the Douglasdale estates, forbye the
Borders and the land in the Hielands. Wae's me for Ninian Halliburton,
merchant and indweller in Dumfries, he'll never see hilt or hair o'
his guid siller gin that wee lassie be lost. Man, Sholto, is't no an
awfu' peety?"

During this lamentation, to which his nephew paid little attention,
looking only from side to side as they three rode among the willows by
the waterside, the other merchant, Robert Semple, had been pondering
deeply.

"How could she be lost in this country of Galloway?" he said, "a land
where there are naught but Douglases and men bound body and soul to
the Douglas, from Solway even to the Back Shore o' Leswalt? 'Tis just
no possible--I'll wager that it is that Hieland gipsy Mistress
Lindesay that has some love ploy on hand, and has gane aff and aiblins
ta'en the lass wi' her for company."

At these words Sholto twisted about in his saddle, as if a wasp had
stung him suddenly.

"Master Semple," he said, "I would have you speak more carefully.
Mistress Lindesay is a baron's daughter and has no love ploys, as you
are pleased to call them."

The two burgesses shook with jolly significant laughter, which angered
Sholto exceedingly.

"Your mirth, sirs, I take leave to tell you, is most mightily ill
timed," he said, "and I shall consider myself well rid of your
company."

He was riding away when his uncle set his hand upon the bridle of
Sholto's jennet.

"Bide ye, wild laddie," he said, "there is nae service in gaun aff
like a fuff o' tow. My freend here meaned to speak nae ill o' the
lass. But at least I ken o' ae love ploy that Mistress Lindesay is
engaged in, or your birses wadna be so ready to stand on end, my bonny
man. But guid luck to ye. Ye hae the mair chance o' finding the flown
birdies, that ye maybes think mair o' the bonny norland quey than ye
think o' the bit Gallowa' calf. But God speed ye, I say, for gin ye
bringna back the wee lass that's heir to the braid lands o' Thrieve,
it's an ill chance Ninian Halliburton has ever to fill his loof wi'
the bonny gowden 'angels' that (next to high heeven) are a man's best
freends in an evil and adulterous generation."

CHAPTER XL