And, in fact, she cantered up to the top a gentle hill, commanding an extensive prospect. Casting her eyes around, to see that no one was near us, she drew up her horse beneath a few birch-trees, which screened us from the rest of the hunting-field, – "Do you see yon peaked, brown, heathy hill, having something like a whitish speck upon the side?"
"Terminating that long ridge of broken moorish uplands? – I see it distinctly."
"That whitish speck is a rock called Hawkesmore Crag, and Hawkesmore Crag is in Scotland."
"Indeed? I did not think we had been so near Scotland."
"It is so, I assure you, and your horse will carry you there in two hours."
"I shall hardly give him the trouble; why, the distance must be eighteen miles as the crow flies."
"You may have my mare, if you think her less blown – I say, that in two hours you may be in Scotland."
"And I say, that I have so little desire to be there, that if my horse's head were over the Border, I would not give his tail the trouble of following. What should I do in Scotland?"
"Provide for your safety, if I must speak plainly. Do you understand me now, Mr. Frank?"
(Commencé Rob Roy de Walter Scott – je ne sais pas si j'irai jusqu'au bout mais je ne boude pas mon plaisir à la lecture de cette scène de panorama, au chapitre 7.)