cupied, might have cost all their lives. He contented himself, however, with extricating his foot from the grasp of this unexpected follower. "Be still," said a voice behind him, releasing him; "I am a friend—Charles Hazlewood."
These words were uttered in a very low voice, but they produced sound enough to startle Meg Merrilies, who led the van, and who, having already gained the place where the cavern expanded, had risen upon her feet. She began, as if to confound any listening ear, to growl, to mutter, and to sing aloud, and at the same time to make a bustle among some brushwood which was now heaped in the cave.
"Here—beldam—Deyvil's-kind," growled the harsh voice of Dirk Hatteraick from the inside of his den, "what makest thou there?"
"Laying the roughies to keep the cauld wind frae you, ye desperate do-nae-good—Ye're e'en ower weel off, and wots na; it will be otherwise soon."
