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 skene-dhu, 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 treats. 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.
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