nnet to
Madeline. The day was nearly past, and she had not yet made her
appearance.

For the first time the thought struck me, and that with a pang which
made me leap to my feet, that she had accompanied her father, and was
gone! gone, perhaps, to a nunnery in France! gone, and lost to me for
ever! "Hilloa, Peg!" and I thumped the floor with the poker, "Peg, I
say! as you would not have me in another fever, come here!" She came
to the door: the poor old creature's eyes were swollen and blood-shot:
she made a frightened curtsy to me as I stood, the papers crumpled up
in one hand, and the poker in the other.--"Peggy; oh, Peggy! where is
your young mistress?"

"Save us, your honour! Ye are na weel; sall I fetch you a drap
cordial?"

"Your mistress? your mistress? where is your young mistress?"

"Oh, sir, dear! take anither posset, and gang to your bed."

"To the devil I pitch your posset! where is your young mistress? where
is Madeline O'More?"

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