emselves into hoops to bite their tails. About a couple
of fires with pots a-swing over them, bubbling and steaming, little
clouds of wild-looking folk were gathered. Some had bones in their hands
which they thrust into the fire for a minute and then took out again to
gnaw at the burned portion. Tattered women looked within the pots. Once
a man threw a knife at a boy, which struck him on the side. The boy
cried out and the blood ran down, but none took any heed to his
complaint or of the circumstance.

For a moment Maisie Lennox stood still and looked at me. Then she went a
step or two forward, and her face was white and angered. I saw she was
about to speak to them, yet for my life I could not keep her from it.

"Sheep stealers!" she cried; "vagabonds, ye shall hang for this! Not for
naught shall ye harry an honest man's sheep. I ken you, Jock Marshall
and all your crew. The Shirra shall hear of this before the morrow's
morn!"

The encampment stood still at gaze looking up at us, fixed like a show
painted on a screen, while one might slowly count a score. Then Babel
brake loose.

With a wild rush, man, woman, child, and dog poured towards us. Of mere
instinct I came up abreast of Maisie Lennox. Behind me came Gay Garland,
and snuffed over my shoulder, scenting with some suspicion the tinklers'
garrons[2] feeding in the hollow below.

[Footnote 2: Shaggy ponies.]

We stood so still on the knowe-top that, I think, we must have feared
them a little. We were by a gap in the bushes, and the ill-doers, seeing
no more of us thought, no doubt, that there must be more behind, or two
bairns had never been so bold. I think, too, that the very want of arms
daunted them, for they drew back and seemed to consult together as
though uncertain what to do.

Then a great scant-bearded unkempt man with long swinging arms, whom I
took to be Jock Marshall, the chief tinkler and captain of their gang,
pointed to them to scatter round the little knoll, no doubt with the
purpose of making observations and cutting us off.

"Who may you be?" he cried, looking up at us.

"Right well you know," Maisie said, very loud and clear, speaking out
like a minister in the tent at a field-preaching; "I am Anton Lennox of
the Duchrae's daughter, whose sheep ye have boiling in your pots--and
that after being well served with meal at the door, and louting low for
thankfulness. And this is your thanks, ye robbers-behind-backs, gallow's
thieves of Kel