“Umph!” answered Rob; “Hamish can bring doun a blackcock when he’s on the wing wi’ a single bullet, and Rob can drive a dirk through a twa-inch board.”

“Sae muckle the waur for them, cousin! sae muckle the waur for them baith!” answered the Glasgow merchant in a tone of great decision; “an they ken naething better than that, they had better no ken that neither. Tell me yoursell, Rob, what has a’ this cutting, and stabbing, and shooting, and driving of dirks, whether through human flesh or fir deals, dune for yoursell? and werena ye a happier man at the tail o’ your nowte-bestial, when ye were in an honest calling, than ever ye hae been since, at the head o’ your Hieland kernes and gally-glasses?”

I observed that MacGregor, while his well-meaning kinsman spoke to him in this manner, turned and writhed his body like a man who indeed suffers pain, but is determined no groan shall escape his lips; and I longed for an opportunity to interrupt the well-meant, but, as it was obvious to me, quite mistaken strain, in which Jarvie addressed this extraordinary person. The dialogue, however, came to an end without my interference.

“And sae,” said the Bailie, “I hae been thinking, Rob, that as it may be ye are ower deep in the black book to win a pardon, and ower auld to mend yoursell, that it wad be a pity to bring up twa hopefu’ lads to sic a godless trade as your ain, and I wad blithely tak them for prentices at the loom, as I began mysell and my father the deacon afore me, though, praise to the Giver, I only trade now as wholesale dealer—And—and—”

He saw a storm gathering on Rob’s brow, which probably induced him to throw in, as a sweetener of an obnoxious proposition, what he had reserved to crown his own generosity, had it been embraced as an acceptable one;—“and Robin, lad, ye needna look sae glum, for I’ll pay the prentice-fee, and never plague ye for the thousand merks neither.”

“Ceade millia diaoul, hundred thousand devils!” exclaimed Rob, rising and striding through the hut. “My sons weavers!—Millia molligheart! but I wad see every loom in Glasgow, beam, traddles, and shuttles, burnt in hell-fire sooner!”

With some difficulty I made the Bailie, who was preparing a reply, comprehend the risk and impropriety of pressing our host on this topic, and in a minute he recovered, or reassumed, his serenity of temper.

“But ye mean weel—ye mean weel,” said he; “so gie me your hand, Nicol, and if ever I put my sons apprentice, I will gie you the refusal o’ them. And, as you say, there’s the thousand merks to be settled between us.—Here, Eachin MacAnaleister, bring me my sporran.”

The person he addressed, a tall, strong mountaineer, who seemed to act as MacGregor’s lieutenant, brought from some place of safety a large leathern pouch, such as Highlanders of rank wear before them when in full dress, made of the skin of the sea otter, richly garnished with silver ornaments and studs.

“I advise no man to attempt opening this sporran till he has my secret,” said Rob Roy; and then twisting one button in one direction, and another in another, pulling one stud upward, and pressing another downward, the mouth of the purse, which was bound with massive silver-plate, opened and gave admittance to his hand. He made me remark, as if to break short the subject on which Bailie Jarvie had spoken, that a small steel pistol was concealed within the purse, the trigger of which was connected with the mounting, and made part of the machinery, so that the weapon would certainly be discharged, and in all probability its contents lodged in the person of any one, who, being unacquainted with the secret, should tamper with the lock which secured his treasure. “This,” said he, touching the pistol—“this is the keeper of my privy purse.”

The simplicity of the contrivance to secure a furred pouch, which could have been ripped open without any attempt on the spring, reminded me of the verses in the Odyssey, where Ulysses, in a yet ruder