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 Availing himself of the credulity of his countrymen, he pretended
to hold frequent intercourse with a spirit or genii, still much
distinguished in the West Highlands under the appellation of Glastig.
This he turned to excellent account, as the stories which his partisans
fabricated of the command he had over the Glastig, and the
connexion between them, terrified the people so much, that few
could be prevailed upon to watch their cattle at night, and they thus
fell an easy prey to this artful rogue.
Archibald’s father having died early, his mother afterwards
married a second husband, who resided in a neighbouring island.
When she died, her son was out of favour with his stepfather, and he
was refused the privilege of having the disposal of his mother’s
remains, nor did he think it prudent to appear openly at her funeral.
He however obtained accurate information of the place where the
corpse was lying. One dark night, he made an opening in the
thatched roof of the earthen hut, and the wakers being occupied in
the feats of athletic exercise usually practised on these occasions, the
body being excluded from their sight by a screen which hung across
the house, Archibald carried it off to his boat like another Æneas. He
also got possession of the stock of whisky intended for the occasion,
as it lay in the same place—thus discharging the last duties of a pious
son with little expense to himself.
A fatal event at length occurred, which rendered it necessary for
the man to retire from trade. He made a descent on one of the small
islands on that coast, and had collected the cattle, when the
proprietor (who had information of the circumstance), made his
appearance to rescue them. Archibald was compelled to yield up his
prey, but one of the villains who accompanied him levelled his
musket at the gentleman, and shot him dead from the boat.
The robber was fully aware of his danger, and, with the assistance
of a fair wind, he shaped his course for the mainland. He pushed on
with all possible speed, and arrived at Inveraray before sunrise the
following morning. Having information that Stewart of Appin was
then in town, he watched his motions, and at an early hour saw him
on the street in conversation with the sheriff of the county.
Archibald, who was an old acquaintance, saluted him, and his salute
was returned. When Appin parted with the sheriff, Archibald
complained that he had taken no notice of him the preceding day,
when he accosted him in the same place. Appin said he was
conscious of having seen him, but that he was much hurried at the
time, and hoped he would excuse him. The robber’s object was
accomplished. Appin had no doubt of the truth of what he said; and
on his trial for the murder, an alibi was established in his favour,
from this very extraordinary piece of address. Some of his crew were
afterwards taken in Ross-shire, and executed there by order of the
Earl of Seaforth, though the actual murderer escaped punishment.
Archibald, however, never again plundered on a large scale. He died
about the middle of the 17th century, and his name still stands
unrivalled for cunning and address in his calling.—“Traditions of the
Western Highlands,” in the London Literary Gazette.
 THE MURDER HOLE:

An Ancient Legend of Galloway.

Ah, frantic Fear!
I see, I see thee near;
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye!
Like thee I start, like thee disordered fly!
Collins.

In a remote district of country belonging to Lord Cassilis, between

Ayrshire and Galloway, about three hundred years ago, a moor of
apparently boundless extent stretched several miles along the road,
and wearied the eye of the traveller by the sameness and desolation
of its appearance: not a tree varied the prospect—not a shrub
enlivened the eye by its freshness—not a native flower bloomed to
adorn this ungenial soil. One “lonesome desert” reached the horizon
on every side, with nothing to mark that any mortal had ever visited
the scene before, except a few rude huts that were scattered near its
centre; and a road, or rather pathway, for those whom business or
necessity obliged to pass in that direction. At length, deserted as this
wild region had always been, it became still more gloomy. Strange
rumours arose that the path of unwary travellers had been beset on
this “blasted heath,” and that treachery and murder had intercepted
the solitary stranger as he traversed its dreary extent. When several
persons, who were known to have passed that way, mysteriously
disappeared, the inquiries of their relatives led to a strict and anxious
investigation; but though the officers of justice were sent to scour the
country, and examine the inhabitants, not a trace could be obtained
of the persons in question, nor of any place of concealment which
could be a refuge for the lawless or desperate to horde in. Yet as
inquiry became stricter, and the disappearance of individuals more
frequent, the simple inhabitants of the neighbouring hamlet were
agitated by the most fearful apprehensions. Some declared that the
death-like stillness of the night was often interrupted by sudden and
preternatural cries of more than mortal anguish, which seemed to
arise in the distance; and a shepherd one evening, who had lost his
way on the moor, declared he had approached three mysterious
figures, who seemed struggling against each other with supernatural
energy, till at length one of them, with a frightful scream, suddenly
sunk into the earth.
Gradually the inhabitants deserted their dwellings on the heath,
and settled in distant quarters, till at length but one of the cottages
continued to be inhabited by an old woman and her two sons, who
loudly lamented that poverty chained them to this solitary and
mysterious spot. Travellers who frequented this road now generally
did so in groups to protect each other; and if night overtook them,
they usually stopped at the humble cottage of the old woman and her
sons, where cleanliness compensated for the want of luxury, and
where, over a blazing fire of peat, the bolder spirits smiled at the
imaginary dangers of the road, and the more timid trembled as they
listened to the tales of terror and affright with which their hosts
entertained them.
One gloomy and tempestuous night in November, a pedlar-boy
hastily traversed the moor. Terrified to find himself involved in
darkness amidst its boundless wastes, a thousand frightful
traditions, connected with this dreary scene, darted across his mind:
every blast, as it swept in hollow gusts over the heath, seemed to
teem with the sighs of departed spirits; and the birds, as they winged
their way above his head, appeared, with loud and shrill cries, to
warn him of approaching danger. The whistle, with which he usually
beguiled his weary pilgrimage, died away into silence, and he groped
along with trembling and uncertain steps, which sounded too loudly
in his ears. The promise of Scripture occurred to his memory, and
revived his courage: “I will be unto thee as a rock in the desert, and
as an hiding-place in the storm.” “Surely,” thought he, “though alone,
I am not forsaken;” and a prayer for assistance hovered on his lips.
A light now glimmered in the distance which would lead him, he
conjectured, to the cottage of the old woman; and towards that he
eagerly bent his way, remembering, as he hastened along, that when
he had visited it the year before, it was in company of a large party of
travellers, who had beguiled the evening with those tales of mystery
which had so lately filled his brain with images of terror. He
recollected, too, how anxiously the old woman and her sons had
endeavoured to detain him when the other travellers were departing;
and now, therefore, he confidently anticipated a cordial and cheering
reception. His first call for admission obtained no visible marks of
attention, but instantly the greatest noise and confusion prevailed
within the cottage. “They think it is one of the supernatural visitants
of whom the old lady talks so much,” thought the boy, approaching a
window, where the light within showed him all the inhabitants at
their several occupations; the old woman was hastily scrubbing the
stone floor, and strewing it thickly with sand, while her two sons
seemed, with equal haste, to be thrusting something large and heavy
into an immense chest, which they carefully locked.
The boy, in a frolicsome mood, thoughtlessly tapped at the
window, when they all instantly started up with consternation so
strongly depicted on their countenances, that he shrunk back
involuntarily with an undefined feeling of apprehension; but before
he had time to reflect a moment longer, one of the men suddenly
darted out at the door, and seizing the boy roughly by the shoulder,
dragged him violently into the cottage.
“I am not what you take me for,” said the boy, attempting to laugh;
“but only the poor pedlar who visited you last year.”
“Are you alone?” inquired the old woman, in a harsh, deep tone,
which made his heart thrill with apprehension.
“Yes,” said the boy, “I am alone here; and alas!” he added with a
burst of uncontrollable feeling, “I am alone in the wide world also!
Not a person exists who would assist me in distress, or shed a single
tear if I died this very night.”
“Then you are welcome!” said one of the men with a sneer, while
he cast a glance of peculiar expression at the other inhabitants of the
cottage.
It was with a shiver of apprehension, rather than of cold, that the
boy drew towards the fire, and the looks which the old woman and
her sons exchanged made him wish that he had preferred the shelter
of any one of the roofless cottages which were scattered near, rather
than thrust himself among persons of such dubious aspect. Dreadful
surmises flitted across his brain; and terrors which he could neither
combat nor examine imperceptibly stole into his mind; but alone,
and beyond the reach of assistance, he resolved to smother his
suspicions, or at least not increase the danger by revealing them. The
room to which he retired for the night had a confused and desolate
aspect: the curtains seemed to have been violently torn down from
the bed, and still hung in tatters around it; the table seemed to have
been broken by some violent concussion, and the fragments of
various pieces of furniture lay scattered upon the floor. The boy
begged that a light might burn in his apartment till he was asleep,
and anxiously examined the fastenings of the door; but they seemed
to have been wrenched asunder on a former occasion, and were still
left rusty and broken.
It was long ere the pedlar attempted to compose his agitated
nerves to rest, but at length his senses began to “steep themselves in
forgetfulness,” though his imagination remained painfully active,
and presented new scenes of terror to his mind, with all the vividness
of reality. He fancied himself again wandering on the heath, which
appeared to be peopled with spectres, who all beckoned to him not to
enter the cottage, and as he approached it, they vanished with a
hollow and despairing cry. The scene then changed, and he found
himself again seated by the fire, where the countenances of the men
scowled upon him with the most terrifying malignity, and he thought
the old woman suddenly seized him by the arms, and pinioned them
to his side.
Suddenly the boy was startled from these agitated slumbers, by
what sounded to him like a cry of distress; he was broad awake in a
moment, and sat up in bed; but the noise was not repeated, and he
endeavoured to persuade himself it had only been a continuation of
the fearful images which had disturbed his rest, when, on glancing at
the door, he observed underneath it a broad red stream of blood
silently stealing its course along the floor. Frantic with alarm, it was
but the work of a moment to spring from his bed, and rush to the
door, through a chink of which, his eye nearly dimmed with affright,
he could watch unsuspected whatever might be done in the adjoining
room.
 His fear vanished instantly when he perceived that it was only a
goat that they had been slaughtering; and he was about to steal into
his bed again, ashamed of his groundless apprehensions, when his
ear was arrested by a conversation which transfixed him aghast with
terror to the spot.
“This is an easier job than you had yesterday,” said the man who
held the goat. “I wish all the throats we’ve cut were as easily and
quietly done. Did you ever hear such a noise as the old gentleman
made last night? It was well we had no neighbours within a dozen
miles, or they must have heard his cries for help and mercy.”
“Don’t speak of it,” replied the other; “I was never fond of
bloodshed.”
“Ha! ha!” said the other, with a sneer, “you say so, do you?”
“I do,” answered the first, gloomily; “the Murder Hole is the thing
for me—that tells no tales; a single scuffle,—a single plunge,—and the
fellow’s dead and buried to your hand in a moment. I would defy all
the officers in Christendom to discover any mischief there.
“Ay, Nature did us a good turn when she contrived such a place as
that. Who that saw a hole in the heath, filled with clear water, and so
small that the long grass meets over the top of it, would suppose that
the depth is unfathomable, and that it conceals more than forty
people, who have met their deaths there? It sucks them in like a
leech!”
“How do you mean to despatch the lad in the next room?” asked
the old woman in an undertone. The elder son made her a sign to be
silent, and pointed towards the door where their trembling auditor
was concealed; while the other, with an expression of brutal ferocity,
passed his bloody knife across his throat.
The pedlar boy possessed a bold and daring spirit, which was now
roused to desperation; but in any open resistance the odds were so
completely against him that flight seemed his best resource. He
gently stole to the window, and having forced back the rusty bolt by
which the casement had been fastened, he let himself down without
noise or difficulty. “This betokens good,” thought he, pausing an
instant, in dreadful hesitation what direction to take. This
momentary deliberation was fearfully interrupted by the hoarse
voice of the men calling aloud, “The boy has fled—let loose the
bloodhound!” These words sunk like a death-knell on his heart, for
escape appeared now impossible, and his nerves seemed to melt
away like wax in a furnace. “Shall I perish without a struggle?”
thought he, rousing himself to exertion, and, helpless and terrified as
a hare, pursued by its ruthless hunters, he fled across the heath.
Soon the baying of the bloodhound broke the stillness of the night,
and the voice of its masters sounded through the moor, as they
endeavoured to accelerate its speed. Panting and breathless, the boy
pursued his hopeless career, but every moment his pursuers seemed
to gain upon his failing steps. The hound was unimpeded by the
darkness which was to him so impenetrable, and its noise rung
louder and deeper on his ear,—while the lanterns which were carried
by the men gleamed near and distinct upon his vision.
At his fullest speed the terrified boy fell with violence over a heap
of stones, and having nothing on but his shirt, he was severely cut in
every limb. With one wild cry to Heaven for assistance, he continued
prostrate on the earth, bleeding and nearly insensible. The hoarse
voices of the men, and the still louder baying of the dog, were now so
near, that instant destruction seemed inevitable; already he felt
himself in their fangs, and the bloody knife of the assassin appeared
to gleam before his eyes. Despair renewed his energy, and once
more, in an agony of affright that seemed verging towards madness,
he rushed forward so rapidly that terror seemed to have given wings
to his feet. A loud cry near the spot he had left arose in his ears
without suspending his flight. The hound had stopped at the place
where the pedlar’s wounds bled so profusely, and deeming the chase
now over, it lay down there, and could not be induced to proceed. In
vain the men beat it with frantic violence, and cried again to put the
hound on the scent,—the sight of blood satisfied the animal that its
work was done, and it obstinately resisted every inducement to
pursue the same scent a second time.
The pedlar boy in the meantime paused not in his flight till
morning dawned; and still as he fled, the noise of steps seemed to
pursue him, and the cry of his would-be assassins sounded in the
distance. He at length reached a village, and spread instant alarm
throughout the neighbourhood; the inhabitants were aroused with
one accord into a tumult of indignation—several of them had lost
sons, brothers, or friends on the heath, and all united in proceeding
immediately to seize the old woman and her sons, who were nearly
torn to pieces in their furious wrath. Three gibbets were at once
raised on the moor, and the wretched culprits confessed before their
execution to the destruction of nearly fifty victims in the Murder
Hole, which they pointed out, and near which they suffered the
penalty of their crimes. The bones of several murdered persons were
with difficulty brought up from the abyss into which they had been
thrust; but so narrow is the aperture, and so extraordinary the depth,
that all who see it are inclined to coincide in the tradition of the
country people, that it is unfathomable.
The scene of these events still continues nearly as it was three
hundred years ago: the remains of the old cottage, with its blackened
walls (haunted, of course, by a thousand evil spirits), and the
extensive moor, on which a more modern inn (if it can be dignified
with such an epithet) resembles its predecessor in everything but the
character of its inhabitants. The landlord is deformed, but possesses
extraordinary genius; he has himself manufactured a violin, on
which he plays with untaught skill,—and if any discord be heard in
the house, or any murder committed in it, this is his only instrument.
His daughter (who has never travelled beyond the heath) has
inherited her father’s talent, and learned all his tales of terror and
superstition, which she relates with infinite spirit; but when you are
led by her across the heath to drop a stone into that deep and narrow
gulf to which our story relates,—when you stand on its slippery edge,
and, parting the long grass with which it is covered, gaze into its
mysterious depths,—when she describes, with all the animation of an
eye-witness, the struggle of the victims clutching the grass as a last
hope of preservation, and trying to drag in their assassin as an
expiring effort of vengeance,—when you are told that for three
hundred years the clear waters in this diamond of the desert have
remained untasted by mortal lips, and that the solitary traveller is
still pursued at night by the howling of the bloodhound,—it is then
only that it is possible fully to appreciate the terrors of “The Murder
Hole.”—Blackwood’s Magazine, 1829.
 THE MILLER OF DOUNE:
A TRAVELLER’S TALE.

Chapter I.
In the reign of James the Fifth, the mill on the Teath, near Doune,
was possessed, as it had been for abune a century, by a family of the
name of Marshall.
They were a bauld and a strong race of men, and when the miller
of whom we’re now to speak was in his prime, it used to be a
common saying in the kintra, “Better get a kick frae a naig’s foot,
than a stroke frae John Marshall;” and even now that he was
threescore and one, there were unco few that liked to come to grips
wi’ him. But though John kent he need fear nae man, and would
carry things wi’ a high hand when needfu’, yet he was onything but
quarrelsome, and was aye mair ready to gree wi’ a man than to fight
wi’ him; and as he was a gash sensible man, and thoroughly honest,
he had mony frien’s and weel-wishers, and was muckle respeckit in
the hale kintra side.
John’s family consisted of twa sons and a dochter, who had lost
their mither when they were but weans. The eldest, James, was as
like what his father was at the same age, as twa peas; only, if
onything, a thought stronger. William, the next, was mair slender;
but though he couldna put the stane, nor fling the fore-hammer,
within mony an ell o’ James, yet he could jump higher than ony man
he had ever met wi’; and as for rinnin’, naebody could come near
him. Of Jeanie Marshall we need say nae mair than that she was a
sensible, spirited, light-hearted lassie, the pride of her brothers, and
her father’s darling.
 It happened ae night, as the miller was coming back frae gien his
horse a drink at the water, that he heard something cheep-cheeping
in the grass at the roadside, and every now and then it gied a bit flee
up in the air, and then doun again; and upon looking at it again, the
miller saw that it was a robin chased by a whuttrit, which was trying
to grip it; and the miller said to himsel, “I canna thole to see the puir
bit burdie riven a’ to coopens afore my very een;” so he banged aff
the horse, and ran and got it up in his hand, and he let drive sic a
kick at the whuttrit, that the beast gaed up in the lift, and ower the
hedge, just as if it had been a kuisten snawba’.
On lookin’ at the robin, John saw some straes stickin’ to’t wi’ burd-
lime, which had stoppit it frae fleein’, and he begood to pike them
aff; but Clod, who was a restless brute, and was wearyin’ for his
stable, tuggit and ruggit sae at the helter, that the miller could come
nae speed ava. “And now,” says the miller, “gif I set you doun, puir
thing, as ye are, some beast or anither will come and worry ye; and
it’s no in my power to get on that dancing deevil’s back wi’ ae hand—
sae gang ye in there;” and he lifted up the flap o’ his pouch, and pat
in the robin.
Now, John Marshall kentna that a’ this time there was a man at
the back o’ the hedge wi’ a cockit gun in his hand, ready to shoot the
whuttrit; but who, when he saw the miller jump aff his horse, took
doun the gun frae his shouther, to watch the upshot o’t; and when he
heard what the miller said, and saw him put the robin in his pouch,
he thought to himsel, “I maun ken something mair about this man;”
sae he follows the miller at a distance. And when he sees him come
out o’ the stable, and into the house, and the door steekit, and a’
quiet, he slips up to a window which was a wee bit open, and whaur
he could hear and see a’ that gaed on. The first thing he sees is the
miller and his family preparing for family worship, for that was a
thing John Marshall ne’er missed; and after the psalm was dune, the
miller spreads the Bible before him, and pittin’ his hand into his
pouch for his napkin, to dight his spectacles, out comes napkin, an’
burd, an’ a’.
“’Od,” says Jeanie, saftly, “gif my father hasna brought hame a
robin.”
“Whaur got ye the bit robin, father?” said William.
 “Ne’er ye mind, William, my man,” said the miller; “I’m gaun to
read ye a part o’ the Word o’ God, and that will do ye mair gude than
onything I hae to tell ye;” and as he pat out his hand to tak the corner
o’ his napkin, the robin gied him a dab. “Aye, neebor!” says the
miller. “But ye’re no to blame, puir beastie, for ye wasna to ken
whether I meant ye ill or gude. And now that I think o’t,” continued
the miller, “I’ll pass by our regular order the night, and read ye that
chapter whaur we’re tauld that no even a sparrow shall fa’ to the
grund without the Lord wills it.”
When he had finished it, they a’ went doun on their knees, and the
miller, amang ither things, prayed that He, wha took care even o’ the
bit burds o’ the air, would watch for their welfare, and gie them grace
to resist a’ temptation, and to live a gude and a godly life, like men
and like Christians. And when it was ower, and Jeanie was putting by
the Bible, a dirl comes to the door.
“See wha’s that, Jeanie,” cried the miller. Sae Jeanie opens it, and
when she comes back, she says, “It’s ane John Murdoch, father,
wha’s travell’t a gey lang bit the day; but gif it’s no convenient to tak
him in, he’ll just trudge on.”
“Bring him ben, lassie,” quoth the miller. Sae in walks John
Murdoch, a plain, honest, kintra-like chiel; and “Guid e’en to you,
miller,” says he.
“The same to you, frien’,” says John Marshall; “and sit ye doun,
and pit by your bonnet. We’re gaun to hae our parritch belyve, and if
ye’ll tak your share o’ them, and stay a’ night wi’ us, we’ll mak ye
welcome.”
“Wi’ a’ my heart,” says John Murdoch, sitting himsel down. “And
ye’ve gotten a bit burdie on the table, I see,—but it’s a wee douf ways,
I think.”
“Ou aye,” quoth the miller, “the puir thing’s gotten a bit fright the
night; and it’s a’ stickin’ wi’ burd-lime, and I kenna how to get it aff.”
“Let me see’t,” says John Murdoch, “I hae some bit notion o’ thae
things.” An’ he took a’ the straes aff it, and dighted and cleaned its
feathers, and made it just as right’s ever.
“And whaur’ll we put it now?” said he.
“’Od,” quoth the miller, “it would amaist be a pity to put it out at
the window the night; sae, Jeanie, see, if there’s naething to haud it
till the morn’s morning.”
“We’ll sune manage that,” said Jeanie, takin’ doun an auld cage.
The robin being safely disposed of, John Murdoch began to speak
to the miller of a heap o’ things, and he had the best o’t on maist o’
them; but when he cam to speak o’ kye, and on kintra matters, “I hae
ye now, man,” thought the miller; but faith he found John Murdoch
his match there too; and he said to himsel, “Od, but he’s a queer man
that, sure eneugh.” And John Murdoch gaed on tellin’ a wheen funny
stories. The miller leugh and better leugh, and Jeanie was sae ta’en
up about them, that in she rins twa handfu’s o’ saut instead o’ meal
into the parritch, and them sauted afore. Sae when they’re set on the
table, John Murdoch gets the first platefu’; and when he tastes them,
he says very gravely, “No that ill; but maybe ye’ll hae run out o’
saut?”
“Saut!” cried William, “do they want saut?” and in gangs a
spoonfu’.
“Gudesake!” cried he, turning roun’ to John Murdoch.
“What’s wrang with them, William?” said the miller.
“Ou, naething, naething, father—only they’re as saut’s lick, that’s
a’.”
“Gae awa wi’ your havers,” cried Jeanie; “let me taste them. Bless
me! an’ how in a’ the wide warl’ could that happen? I ne’er made sic a
mistak in a’ my days, an’ I canna account for’t in no gate.”
“Now dinna ye gang and vex yoursel about it,” said John Murdoch,
“for they’ll just gaur the yill there gang doun a’ the better.”
“If that’s the gate o’t,” cried the miller, “they’ll need strong yill frae
the first; sae, Jeanie, put ye that sma’ thing by, and bring the ither.”
“Na, na, gudeman,” says John Murdoch, “if we do that, wee’l be
fou; sae let’s begin wi’ the sma’ thing first, and we can tak the strong
yill afterwards, at our leisure.”
“Weel, weel,” said the miller, “sae be’t.”
Sae after supper they fell to the strong yill, and to crackin’, and the
miller took his share in’t, but nane o’ his family said onything maist;
but they couldna keep their een aff John Murdoch when he was
lookin’ at their father, though they found that they couldna look him
steady in the face when he turned to them, just frae something in his
ee, they couldna tell what.
“And it’s a bonnie place this o’ yours, miller,” said John Murdoch;
“and nae doubt you and your folk afore ye hae been a gey while in’t.”
“’Deed hae we,” said the miller, a wee gravely, “and, as ye say, it’s a
gey bonnie bit place.”
John Murdoch was gaun to ask something mair about it, but he
stopped on getting a particular look frae Jeanie, and changed the
subject; but the miller noticed it, and guessing the reason, said to
John Murdoch, “Ye see, frien’, that me and my forefathers hae had
this place for about twa hunder years, and we’re sweert to leave’t,
and my bairns ken that, and dinna like to speak o’t.”
“And what’s makin’ ye leave’t?” says John Murdoch; “that’s to say,
if its no ony secret.”
“Ou, nane ava,” says the miller; “it’s just this, ye see: its owner
thinks that it’s worth mair rent, and maybe he counts on our gien
him mair than the value o’t rather than gang awa, sae he’s just put
the double on’t, and gang we maun; for to stay here at that rate,
would just rin awa wi’ the wee thing I hae laid by for my bairns,
which I would be sweert to see. It’s no very muckle, to be sure; but I
can say this, John Murdoch, that it wasna gotten either by cheating
or idleness. However, we needna weary you wi’ our concerns, sae
come, we’s drink King James, and lang life to him.”
“Wi’ a’ my heart, miller,” quoth John Murdoch. “And nae doubt
ye’ll a’ be gaun to the sports that’s sune to be hauden at Stirling; they
say there’ll be grand fun, and I was just thinking that your auld son
there wadna hae a bad chance o’ winning at puttin’ the stane, or
flinging the mell.”
“And I ken,” cried Jeanie, “wha wad hae some chance at the race,
gif there’s to be ane.”
“Dinna brag, bairns,” said the miller, “and then, if ye’re waured,
there’s naething to be ashamed o’; but whether we gang there or no,
time will show; in the meantime, Jeanie, bring anither bottle o’
strong yill.”
“Miller,” quoth John Murdoch, “ken ye what hour it’s?”
“Me!” said the miller, “not I—maybe half an hour after nine.”
 “Because it just wants five minutes of eleven,” quoth John
Murdoch.
“Five minutes o’ eleven!” cried the miller, “and me no in my bed!
Faith, then, frien’, since ye dinna seem for’t yoursel, we’ll just let the
yill stan’, and be aff to our nests; sae a gude soun’ sleep to you.”
“And the same to you and yours,” quoth John Murdoch, as he raise
and gaed awa wi’ William.
 Chapter II.
Next morning the miller’s family were up and out at the usual
hour; but John Murdoch, who had wearied himsel the day before,
and who hadna, maybe, been used to sae muckle strong yill at ance,
lay still; and it was aught o’clock when he cam into the kitchen and
bade Jeanie gude mornin’.
“And how’s the gudeman? and is he out or in?”
“How!” cries Jeanie, “he and the lave hae been up and out at their
wark three hours syne.”
“And what are ye gaun to be about, my dawtie?” says John
Murdoch.
“I’m gaun to wash the kirn,” says Jeanie.
“And suppose I haud it for ye, and help ye?” says he.
“Weel aweel,” says Jeanie, “gin ye like; we’ll hae’t the sooner
ower.”
And John Murdoch did his best, and was very active; and when a’
was dune, he says, “An’ now, my dawtie, what am I to get for helping
ye?”
“Nae mair,” quoth Jeanie, “than the thanks ye hae gotten already.”
“But in my kintra,” says John Murdoch, “when a lad helps a lass to
clean out a kirn, he aye gets ae kiss at least.”
“We ken naething about thae fashions hereabouts,” says Jeanie,
“sae haud ye out o’ my gate!”
But as she passed him, John Murdoch, who thought she wasna in
earnest, drew her suddenly to him, and he had ta’en twa or three
kisses before Jeanie could recollect herself; but the next minute she
threw him frae her, and catching the ladle, she ran to the parritch-
pat on the fire, and whipped aff the lid; and if John Murdoch, who
saw what was coming, hadna darted out at the back door, he wad hae
had it a’ about him; as it was, a part o’ the het parritch played splarge
aff the wa’ on his coat.
 “And now,” thought John Murdoch, “is this real anger, or is’t put
on?” and he stood a wee bit aff, joking an’ jeering her.
“Aye, aye,” says he, “ye’re makin’ an unco wark about it, just as if
ye hadna been kissed a dozen times frae lug to lug, an’ by as mony
lads, and no said a word about it.”
“Ye notorious vagabond that ye are,” cried Jeanie,—“but I’se sort
ye for’t;” and she flung down the ladle and ran to loose the muckle
dog.
“Ye’re surely no gaun to set the dog on me?” says John Murdoch.
“Am I no?” says Jeanie, drawing and working wi’ the collar wi’ a’
her might.
John Murdoch, seeing her sae determined, slips to ae side, and
gets his gun frae whaur he had hidden’t.
“And now, Jeanie,” cries he, “haud your hand, for see, I’ve a gun.”
“I dinna care gin ye had twenty guns,” said Jeanie, who had now
unbuckled the collar, an’ held it in her hands; “sae tak leg-bail an’ aff
wi’ ye, my man, or Bawtie comes to ye.”
“Jeanie,” quoth John Murdoch, “I’m ready to walk awa peaceably,
since it maun be sae; but I’ll no be hunted frae your father’s house
like a thief an’ a scoundrel; sae keep up your dog, if ye’re wise.”
“We’ll sune try that,” says Jeanie, loosening the collar; “sae at him,
Bawtie! an’ we’ll sune see him rin.”
But John Murdoch stirredna ae step, and when Bawtie made at
him, he keepit him aff for a while, till the brute gettin’ below the
muzzle, made a dart at him; and if John Murdoch hadna jumped
quickly to ae side, he wad hae gripped him; as it was, he took awa ane
o’ the tails o’ his coat. And when Jeanie saw that, she was in a terrible
fright, for she didna wish him hurt, and thought he wad hae ran for’t
when she loosed the dog, and she cried wi’ a’ her might for Bawtie to
come back. But the beast wadna mind her, for he had gotten twa or
three gude paps on the nose, which made him furious; and sae when
he’s gaun to mak anither spring, John Murdoch, who saw there was
naething else for it, levels at him and lets drive; and round and round
the beast gaed, and then ower wi’ him; and when Jeanie saw he was
killed, she set up a great screigh, and ran till him, abusing John
Murdoch.
 “I’m sorry for’t, but it’s a’ your ain faut, Jeanie,” says he, “an’ canna
now be helpit; sae fare-ye-weel.” An’ as he gaed awa, William comes
runnin’ in at the other side o’ the house, an’ cries to Jeanie to ken
what’s the matter.
“It’s a’ John Murdoch’s doings,” cried Jeanie; “he first affronted
me, an’ now he’s killed poor Bawtie.”
“An’ which way is he gane?” cried William.
“Out that gate,” said Jeanie; and away went William like a shot.
But John Murdoch, who had heard what passed, and didna want
to hae ony mair to do in the matter, coured down ahint some bushes
till William was passed; then rising up, he took anither direction, an’
thought he had got clear o’ him, but as he was stappin’ ower a dike,
William got a glimpse o’ him. Doun he comes after him at a bonnie
rate; an’ as he gets near him, “Stop, ye rascal!” he cries to him; “ye
may just as weel stop at ance, for ye may depend on my laying a
dizzen on ye for every hunder ell ye mak me rin after ye.”
And when John Murdoch heard that, the blude gaed up into his
brow, an’ he was thinking o’ standin’ still, when he hears James cry
out,—
“What’s the matter, William? An’ what are ye chasing the man
for?”
“He’s misbehaved to Jeanie, an’ shot Bawtie,” cried William.
“Then taigle him, just taigle him, till I come up,” cried James.
“It’s needless,” thought John Murdoch to himself, “to fight wi’ twa
o’ them, an’ ane o’ them a second Samson, and to mak an
explanation or apology wad be ten times waur, sae I’ll e’en pit on;”
an’ aff he gaed at nearly the tap o’ his fit. After rinning a gude bit, he
looks o’er his shouther, an’ seeing naebody near him, he thinks
they’ve gien’t up; but just as he’s coming to the end o’ a bit wood, he
sees William, wha had ta’en a nearer cut, just afore him; an’ round he
comes on him, crying, “Now, my man, I hae ye now,” putting out his
hand to catch John Murdoch; but John drave down his hand in a
moment, an’ clapping his foot ahint William’s, an’ whirling him to ae
side, “Tak ye that, my man,” says he; an’ William gaed down wi’ sic a
breinge, that the blude spouted out frae his nose, an’ the hale warld
gaed round wi’ him.
 It was a wee while or James cam up, an’ when he saw William
lying covered wi’ blude, “The Lord preserve us,” cried he, “the
callant’s killed!” an’ he sat down beside him, an’ got William’s head
on his knee, an’ tried to recover him. By an’ by, William opens his
een, an’ when he sees James, “After him, after him,” cries he, “an’ no
mind me.”
“After him,” says James, “an’ the man a mile agate already? It wad
be nonsense for me to try’t.”
“Then let me up, an’ I’ll try it mysel,” cried William.
But James held him fast. “The deil’s in the callant,” says he, “to
think o’ runnin’, an’ him no able to stand his lane. Lie still, I tell ye!”
And William, who knew it was in vain for him to strive with his
strong brither, thought it best no to struggle ony mair. When he had
gotten quite round again, James helpit him up, an’ as they’re gaun
down to the water for William to wash himsel, they meet Jeanie
coming fleein’ up the path; and when she saw William’s bloody face
and claes, she clasped her hands thegither, an’ would hae fa’en, if
James hadna keppit her. When they questioned her about what had
happened, she tell’t it to them honestly frae first to last, and blamed
hersel sair for being sae angry an’ rash, when, after a’, the man meant
nae ill; but the thought o’ what Geordie Wilson might think if he
heard o’t, an’ the shootin’ o’ Bawtie thegither, had perfectly
dumfoundered her. “However,” continued Jeanie, “I’m thankfu’ that
things are nae waur, an’ that the man’s awa.”
“Aye, he’s awa,” says James, “but gin him an’ me foregather again,
I’se promise him the best paid skin he e’er got since he was
kirstened.”
“Weel, weel,” said Jeanie, “but I hope ye’ll ne’er meet; an’ now we
must gang and pit puir Bawtie out o’ the gate, an’ think on something
to say about him, and about John Murdoch’s gangin’ awa sae early,
before our father comes in to his breakfast.”
 Chapter III.
The time was now drawing near for the sports to be held at
Stirling, and William was aye wanting to speak to his father about it,
and to ken if they were gaun; but Jeanie advised against it. “If ye
speak till him, and fash him about it enow,” says she, “it’s ten to ane
but he’ll say no, and then, ye ken, there’s an’ end o’t; but gif ye say
naething, and keep steady to your wark, like enough he may speak o’
gaun himsel; sae tak my advice an’ sae naething ava about it.”
William did as Jeanie wanted him, but still the miller didna speak,
an’ now it was the afternoon of the day before the sports were to
come on, an’ no a word had been said about them; an’ William was
unco vexed, an’ didna weel ken what to do. When he’s sitting
thinking about it, the door opens, an’ in steps their neebour,
Saunders Mushet, just to crack a wee; an’ by an’ by he says, “Weel,
miller, an’ what time will ye be for setting aff the morn’s morning?”
“Me!” said the miller, “an’ what to do?”
“What to do?” says Saunders, “why, to see the sports at Stirling, to
be sure; you’ll surely never think o’ missing sic a grand sight?”
“An’ troth, Saunders,” says the miller, “I had clean forgotten’t. ’Od,
I daursay there’ll be grand fun, an’ my bairns wad maybe like to see’t;
an’ now that I think o’t, they’ve dune unco weel this while past,
especially William there, wha’s wrought mair than e’er I saw him do
afore in the same space o’ time; sae get ye ready, bairns, to set out at
five o’clock the morn’s morning, an’ we’ll tak Saunders up as we gae
by.”
This was glad news to the miller’s family, an’ ye needna doubt but
they were a’ ready in plenty o’ time; an’ when they cam to Stirling,
they got their breakfast, an’ a gude rest before aught o’clock cam,
which was the hour when the sports were to begin; an’ grand sports
they were, an’ muckle diversion gaed on; but nane o’ the miller’s
family took ony share in them, till they cam to puttin’ the stane, and
flingin’ the mell.
“Now James, my man,” says Jeanie, squeezing his arm.