At last, upon the other side of Loch Errocht, going over a smooth, rushy place, where the walking was easy, he could bear it no longer, and came close to me.
“David,” says he, “this is no way for two friends to take a small accident. I have to say that I’m sorry; and so that’s said. And now if you have anything, ye’d better say it.”
“O,” says I, “I have nothing.”
He seemed disconcerted; at which I was meanly pleased.
“No,” said he, with rather a trembling voice, “but when I say I was to blame?”
“Why, of course, ye were to blame,” said I, coolly; “and you will bear me out that I have never reproached you.”
“Never,” says he; “but ye ken very well that ye’ve done worse. Are we to part? Ye said so once before. Are ye to say it again? There’s hills and heather enough between here and the two seas, David; and I will own I’m no very keen to stay where I’m no wanted.”
This pierced me like a sword, and seemed to lay bare my private disloyalty.
“Alan Breck!” I cried; and then: “Do you think I am one to turn my back on you in your chief need? You dursn’t say it to my face. My whole conduct’s there to give the lie to it. It’s true, I fell asleep upon the muir; but that was from weariness, and you do wrong to cast it up to me———”
