There was in the house with him at this time a young girl
(whether an adopted daughter or merely a maid who cooked and looked
after the old man's house, one does not know), but she had refused to
leave when he began to barricade the place, and Ringan's sole anxiety
was now apparently for her. Of his own safety or that of his house, he
seemed to think not at all; the grim old dourness and determination that
had distinguished him at Bothwell Bridge and elsewhere were again
smouldering, ready to burst into flame.
"Keep oot o' the licht, lass, and rin nae risk; gang in ahint yon press
door," he said to the girl, when the men outside began firing at the
windows.
Then he, too, began to fire back at his enemies, and for a time he was
too much absorbed in his practice to pay attention to what the girl
might be doing. Thus, he had just fired a shot which clipped away one of
the curls from the Sheriff's wig, when a gasp, and the sound of a heavy
fall on the floor behind him, caused the old man hastily to look round.
Curiosity had overcome her caution; the girl had ventured from her
shelter, and, standing behind Ringan, had been trying to see, past the
edge of the window, how things were going outside. Perhaps she had a
lover in the attacking party, and feared for his safety.
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