made
Westerhall neither to hold nor bind. Indeed the fear of mulet and fine
rode him like the hag of dreams.

"Truth of God!" cried he; for he was a wild and blasphemous man, very
reckless in his words; "do so to me, and more also, if I rack not their
limbs, that gied the clouts to wrap him in. I'se burn the bed he lay in,
bring doon the rafter and roof-tree that sheltered him--aye, though it
were the bonny hoose o' St. Johnstone itsel', an' lay the harbourer of
the dead Whig cauld i' the clay, gin it were the mither that bore me!
Deil reestle me gin I keep not this vow."

Now, the most of the men there were upon occasion bonny swearers, not
taking lessons in the art from any man; but to the Johnstone they were
as children. For, being a runnagate Covenanter, and not accustomed in
his youth to swear, he had been at some pains to learn the habit with
care, thinking it a necessary accomplishment and ornament to such as did
the King's business, especially to a captain of horse. Which, indeed, it
hath ever been held, but in moderation and with discretion. Westerhall
had neither, being the man he was.

"Fetch the Whig dog up!" he commanded.

The men hesitated, for it was a job not at all to their stomachs, as
well it might not be that hot day, with the sun fierce upon them
overhead.

"Tut, man," said Clavers, "let him lie. What more can ye do but smell
him? Is he not where you and I would gladly see all his clan? Let the
ill-favoured Whig be, I say!"

"I shall find out who sheltered him on my land. Howk him up!" cried
Westerhall, more than ever set in his mad cruelty at Colonel Graham's
words. So to the light of the merciless day they opened out the loose
and shallow grave, and came on one wrapped in a new plaid, with winding
sheets of pure linen underneath. These were all stained and soaked with
the black brew of the moss, for the man had been buried, as was usual at
the time, hastily and without a coffin. But the sleuthhound instinct of
the Johnstone held good. "Annandale for the hunt, Nithsdale for the
market, and Gallowa' for the fecht!" is ever a true proverb.

"Let me see wha's aucht the sheet?" he said.

So with that, Westerhall unwound the corner and held it up to the light.

"Isobel Allison!" he exclaimed, holding the fine linen up to the light,
and reading the name inwoven, as was then the custom when a bride did
her providing. "The widow Herries, the verra woman--ain dam's sister to
the Whig preacher--sa