Get hence--ye are nae son o' Barbara MacKim.

Let me never look on your face again, gin ye bringna back the pride o' the warld, the gladness o' the auld withered heart o' her ye ca' your mither!" "Mother," said Sholto, "my lord was not dead when I left him--he sent me to raise the country to his rescue." "And what for then are ye standin' there clavering, and your lord in danger among his foes ?" cried his mother, angrily.
"Dear mother, I have something more to tell ye--" "Aye, I ken, ye needna break the news.

It is that Malise, my man, is dead--that Laurence, wha ran frae the Abbey to gang wi' him to the wars, is nae mair.

Aweel they are worthily spent, since they died for their chief! Ye say that ye were sent to raise the clan--then what seek ye at the Carlinwark?
To Thrieve, man, to Thrieve; as hard as ye can ride! To Castle Thrieve!" "Mother," said Sholto, still more gently, "hearken but a moment.
Thirty thousand men are on their way to Edinburgh.

Three days and nights have I ridden without sleep.