'Do not be so daft, Lord Malcolm,' replied the Squire, retaining his hold
on the boy's bridle; 'what, rin your head into the wolf's mouth again,
when we've barely brought you off haill and sain?'

'Haill and sain? Dastard and forlorn,' cried Malcolm, with passionate
weeping. 'I--I to flee and leave my sister--my uncle! Oh, where are
they? Halbert, let me go; I'll never pardon thee.'

'Hoot, my lord! would I let you gang, when the Tutor spak to me as plain
as I hear you now? "Take off Lord Malcolm," says he; "save him, and you
save the rest. See him safe to the Earl of Mar." Those were his words,
my lord; and if you wilna heed them, I will.'

'What, and leave my sister to the reivers? Oh, what may not they be
doing to her? Let us go back and fall on them, Halbert; better die
saving her than know her in Walter Stewart's hands. Then were I the
wretched craven he calls me.'

'Look you, Lord Malcolm,' said Halbert, laying his finger on his nose,
with a knowing expression, 'my young lady is safe from harm so long as
you are out of the Master of Albany's reach. Had you come by a canny
thrust in the fray, as no doubt was his purpose, or were you in his hands
to be mewed in a convent, then were your sister worth the wedding; but
the Master will never wed her while you live and have friends to back
you, and his father, the Regent, will see she has no ill-usage. You'll
do best for yourself and her too, as well as Sir David, if you make for
Dunbar, and call ben your uncles of Athole and Strathern.--How now, Rab?
are the loons making this way?'