"
"We are still in Staffordshire," I said cheerily, "and I'll go ahead and
see what I can do for you. Now, Donald, your best foot first!"
He and I started ahead again, leaving her waiting for the rest of the
party, detained by some explanation on the Colonel's part of the military
aspects of the lie of the land.
"There's a wheen foine leddies wi' ta Prince, Got bless him," said
Donald, "but when yon carline gets amangst 'em she'll pe like a muircock
amangst a thrang o' craws. She'll ding 'em a'."
I expected that Donald would cherish ill will to me for my blow, but in
this I was wrong. So far from bearing me a grudge, he quite obviously
liked me for it. He had a fist, or nief, as he called it, nearly as big as
a leg of lamb, and almost the first thing he did when we were alone was to
hold it out, huge, dirty, and hairy, and put it alongside mine. He
scratched his rough head in his perplexity.
"At Gladsmuir," he said, "'er nainsell did take ten Southron loons wi'
'er own hant, wi' nobody to help 'er, an' now one callant had dinged 'er
clean senseless wi' nothin' but a bairn's nief.
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