hing
to see too far in front."

"I read it in your bree," she said. "There's a bonny lassie that has
bricht een, and there's a wee man in a braw coat, and a big man in a
pouthered wig, and there's the shadow of the wuddy,[10] joe, that lies
braid across your path. Gie's your loof, hinny, and let Auld Merren spae
it to ye bonny."

The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan and the daughter of
James More, struck me hard; and I fled from the eldritch creature,
casting her a bawbee, which she continued to sit and play with under the
moving shadows of the hanged.

My way down the causeway of Leith Walk would have been more pleasant to
me but for this encounter. The old rampart ran among fields, the like of
them I had never seen for artfulness of agriculture; I was pleased,
besides, to be so far in the still countryside; but the shackles of the
gibbet clattered in my head; and the mops and mows of the old witch, and
the thought of the dead men, hag-rode my spirits. To hang on a gallows,
that seemed a hard case; and whether a man came to hang there for two
shillings Scots, or (as Mr. Stewart had it) from the sense of duty, once
he was tarred and shackled and hung up, the difference seemed small.
There might David Balfour hang, and other lads pass on their errands and
think light of him; and old daft limmers sit at a leg-foot and spae
their fortunes; and the clean genty maids go by, and look to the other
side, and hold a nose. I saw them plain, and they had grey eyes, and
their screens upon their heads were of the Drummond colours.

I was thus in the poorest of spirits, though still pretty resolved, when
I came in view of Pilrig, a pleasant gabled house set by the Walk-side
among some brave young woods. The laird's horse was standing saddled at
the door as I came up, but himself was in the study, where he received
me in the midst of learned works and musical instruments, for he was not
only a deep philosopher but much of a musician. He greeted me at first
pretty well, and, when he had read Rankeillor's letter, placed himself
obligingly at my disposal.

"And what is it, cousin David?" says he--"since it appears that we are
cousins--what is this that I can do for you? A word to Prestongrange?
Doubtless that is easily given. But what should be the word?"

"Mr. Balfour," said I, "if I were to tell you my whole story the way it
fell out, it's my opinion (and it was Rankeillor's before me) that you
would be very little