ee, if he heard thy way of talking. But go thy ways. Tell me quickly
what befel the poor tyke."

"None so evil was his fate," said Wat, "for in the midst of the great
debate that the surprising verdict raised, the tyke drew on a fox's
skin, laid hold of the tail of another tyke, and so passed unobserved
out of the prison. At which many were glad. For, said they, he was a
good tyke that would not sup kail with the Pope nor yet the deil, and so
had no need of his long spoon. And others said that it were a pity to
hang so logical a tyke, for that he was surely no Aberdeen man, ever
ready to cant and recant again."

Roger McGhie laughed aloud and knocked his cane on the ground, for right
well he understood the meaning of all these things, being versed in
parties and politics, which I never was.

"It is mighty merry wit," he said, "and these colleginers are blythesome
blades. I wonder what John Graham will say to this. But go to the
bothies of the bachelor foresters, and get that which may comfort the
inner parts of your cousin from the hills--who, from the hang of his
head, seems not so ready of tongue as thou."

For, indeed, I had been most discreetly silent.

So the tall, grey-headed gentleman went away from us, tapping gently
with his fine cane on the ground, and often stopping to look curiously
at some knot on a tree or some chance puddock or grasshopper on the
roadside.

Then Wat told me that because of his quaint wit and great loyalty, Roger
McGhie of Balmaghie was in high favour with the ruling party, and that
none on his estates were ever molested. Also that Claverhouse frequented
the house greatly, often riding from Dumfries for a single night only to
have the pleasure of his society. He never quartered his men near by the
house of Balmaghie, but rode over alone or with but one attendant in the
forenights--perhaps to get away from roystering Lidderdale of the Isle,
red roaring Baldoon, drinking Winram, and the rest of the boon
companions.

"The laird of Claverhouse will come hither," said Wat, "with a proud set
face, stern and dark as Lucifer's, in the evening. And in the morning
ride away with so fresh a countenance and so pleasing an expression that
one might think him a spirit unfallen. For, as he says, Roger McGhie
does his heart good like medicine."

CHAPTER XXXV.

KATE OF THE DARK BROWS.

Betimes we came to a little row of white cottages deep in the wood, with
only a green clearing at the