"Scotland," he echoes thoughtfully. Hell is a bar in Scotland? That seems entirely probable.

"Thy shirt--" He reaches over to give the damp collar a tug. "Thou'lt catch cold, soaked so in the night air."

But for all that his words imply a recommendation that they get up and leave... you know, it's really only twilight still-- so he only moves to break off a piece of cheese and offer that, too.