she had drawn from his side the dirk which lodged in the folds of his
plaid, and held it up, exclaiming, although the weapon gleamed clear
and bright in the sun, "Blood, blood--Saxon blood again. Robin Oig
M'Combich, go not this day to England!"

"Prutt, trutt," answered Robin Oig, "that will never do neither--it
would be next thing to running the country. For shame, Muhme--give me
the dirk. You cannot tell by the colour the difference betwixt the
blood of a black bullock and a white one, and you speak of knowing
Saxon from Gaelic blood. All men have their blood from Adam, Muhme.
Give me my skenedhu, and let me go on my road. I should have been half
way to Stirling brig by this time--Give me my dirk, and let me go."

"Never will I give it to you," said the old woman--"Never will I quit
my hold on your plaid, unless you promise me not to wear that unhappy
weapon."

The women around him urged him also, saying few of his aunt's words
fell to the ground; and as the Lowland farmers continued to look
moodily on the scene, Robin Oig determined to close it at any
sacrifice.

"Well, then," said the young drover, giving the scabbard of the weapon
to Hugh Morrison, "you Lowlanders care nothing for these freats. Keep
my dirk for me. I cannot give it you, because it was my father's; but
your drove follows ours, and I am content it should be in your
keeping, not in mine. Will this do, Muhme?"

"It must", said the old woman--"that is, if the Lowlander is mad
enough to carry the knife."