burnt
for exercising the power of her art on the innocent inhabitants of that
district. It was, therefore, no uncommon thing for Durie to hear himself
saluted by all the appellations generally applied to the poor persecuted
class to which he was supposed to belong.

"Ay, awa wi' the auld limmer," cried one, "and see that the barrels are
fresh frae Norraway, and weel-lined wi' the bleezing tar."

"Be sure and prick her weel," cried another; "the foul witch may be
fireproof. If she winna burn, boil her like Meg Davy at Smithfield, or
Shirra Melville on the hill o' Garvock."

These cries coming on the ear of the astonished judge, did not
altogether agree with his preconceived notions of being committed to the
power of the Evil One; but they tended still farther to confuse him, and
he even fancied at times that the vengeance of the populace, which thus
rung in his ears, was in the act of being realized, and that he was
actually to suffer the punishment he had so often awarded to others.
Some expressions wrung from him by his fear, and overheard by the quick
ear of Will, gave the latter a clue to the workings of his mind, and he
did not fail to see how he might take advantage of it. As night began to
fall, they had got far on their way towards Moffat, and, consequently,
far out of danger of a pursuit and a rescue. Durie's horse was pricked
forward at a speed not inconsistent with his power of keeping the
saddle. They stopped at no baiting place, but kept pushing forward,
while the silence was still maintained, or, if it ever was broken, it
was to introduce, by interlocutory snatches of conversation, some
reference to the doom which awaited the unhappy judge. The darkness in
which he was muffled, the speed of his journey, the sounds and menaces
that had met his ear, all co-operating with the original sensations
produced by his mysterious seizure, continued to keep alive the terrors
he at first felt, to over-turn all the ordinary ideas and feelings of
the living world, and to sink him deeper and deeper in the confusion
that had overtaken his mind in the midst of his legal reverie at the
Figgate Whins.

The cavalcade kept its course all next day, and, towards the evening,
they approached Graeme's Tower, a dark, melancholy-looking erection,
situated on Dryfe Water, not very distant from the village of Moffat. In
a deep cell of this old castle the President of the Court of Session was
safely lodged, with no more light than wa