Catriona, Robert Louis Stevenson [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

“I thought that would maybe vary your opinions,” said I.

“Hout!” said he. “It shaws me ye can bribe; but I’m no to be bribit.”

“We’ll see about that yet a while,” says I. “And first, I’ll show you that I know what I am talking. You have orders to detain me here till Thursday, 21st September.”

“Ye’re no a’thegether wrong either,” says Andie. “I’m to let ye gang, bar orders contrair, on Saturday, the 23rd.”

I could not but feel there was something extremely insidious in this arrangement. That I was to reappear precisely in time to be too late would cast the more discredit on my tale, if I were minded to tell one; and this screwed me to fighting point.

“Now then, Andie, you that kens the world, listen to me, and think while ye listen,” said I. “I know there are great folks in the business, and I make no doubt you have their names to go upon. I have seen some of them myself since this affair began, and said my say into their faces too. But what kind of a crime would this be that I had committed? or what kind of a process is this that I am fallen under? To be apprehended by some ragged John-Hielandmen on August 30th, carried to a rickle of old stones that is now neither fort nor gaol (whatever it once was) but just the gamekeeper’s lodge of the Bass Rock, and set free again, September 23rd, as secretly as I was first arrested⁠—does that sound like law to you? or does it sound like justice? or does it not sound honestly like a piece of some low dirty intrigue, of which the very folk that meddle with it are ashamed?”

“I canna gainsay ye, Shaws. It looks unco underhand,” says Andie. “And werenae the folk guid sound Whigs and true-blue Presbyterians I would hae seen them ayont Jordan and Jeroozlem or I would have set hand to it.”

“The Master of Lovat’ll be a braw Whig,” says I, “and a grand Presbyterian.”

“I ken naething by him,” said he. “I hae nae trokings wi’ Lovats.”

“No, it’ll be Prestongrange that you’ll be dealing with,” said I.

“Ah, but I’ll no tell ye that,” said Andie.

“Little need when I ken,” was my retort.

“There’s just the ae thing ye can be fairly sure of, Shaws,” says Andie. “And that is that (try as ye please) I’m no dealing wi’ yoursel’; nor yet I amnae goin’ to,” he added.

“Well, Andie, I see I’ll have to be speak out plain with you,” I replied. And I told him so much as I thought needful of the facts.

He heard me out with serious interest, and when I had done, seemed to consider a little with himself.

“Shaws,” said he at last, “I deal with the naked hand. It’s a queer tale, and no vary creditable, the way you tell it; and I’m far frae minting that is other than the way that ye believe it. As for yoursel’, ye seems to me rather a dacent-like young man. But me, that’s aulder and mair judeecious, see perhaps a wee bit further forrit in the job than what ye can dae. And here is the maitter clear and plain to ye. There’ll be nae skaith to yoursel’ if I keep ye here; far frae that, I think ye’ll be a hantle better by it. There’ll be nae skaith to the kintry⁠—just ae mair Hielantman hangit⁠—Gude kens, a guid riddance! On the ither hand it would be considerable skaith to me if I would let you free. Sae, speakin’ as a guid Whig, an honest freen’ to you, and an anxious freen’ to my ainsel’, the plain fact is that I think ye’ll just have to bide here wi’ Andie an’ the solans.”

“Andie,” said I, laying my hand upon his knee, “this Hielantman’s innocent.”

“Ay, it’s a peety about that,” said he. “But ye see in this warld, the way God made it, we cannae just get a’thing that we want.”

I have yet said little of the Highlanders. They were all three of the followers of James More, which bound the accusation very tight about their master’s neck. All understood a word or two of English; but Neil was the only one who judged he had enough of it for general converse, in which (when once he got embarked) his company was often tempted to the contrary opinion. They were tractable, simple creatures; showed much more courtesy than might have been expected from their raggedness and their uncouth appearance, and fell spontaneously to be like three servants for Andie and myself.

Dwelling in that isolated place, in the old falling ruins of a prison, and among endless strange sounds of the sea and the seabirds, I thought I perceived in them early the effects of superstitious fear. When there was nothing doing they would either lie and sleep, for which their appetite appeared insatiable, or Neil would entertain the others with stories which seemed always of a terrifying strain. If neither of these delights were within reach⁠—if perhaps two were sleeping and the third could find no means to follow their example⁠—I would see him sit and listen and look about him in a progression of uneasiness, starting, his face blenching, his hands clutched, a man strung like a bow. The nature of these fears I had never an occasion to find out, but the sight of them was catching, and the nature of the place that we were in favourable to alarms. I can find no word for it in the English, but Andie had an expression for it in the Scots from which he never varied.

“Ay,” he would say, “it’s an unco place, the Bass.” It is so I always think of it. It was an unco place by night, unco by day; and these were unco sounds, of the calling of the solans, and the plash of the sea and the rock echoes, that