a scattered explosion, or
a humplick o' mince."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake shut your mooth, an' let us get her gathered up
an' get oot o' here. Dammit, hae ye nae common sense, swearin' an'
jokin' about sic a thing! It's enough to tempt Providence, an' had it
no' been for the tumblerful o' whisky that Mr. Rundell gied us I dinna
think I could hae faced it. It's awfu'!"

"What the hell are ye girnin' at?" asked Archie, turning round on him.
"Are ye feart Mag bites ye? Man, she's got a' her bitin' by noo,
although I admit she's made a hell o' a mess at the end. Pit your shovel
in here an' lift this pickle, an' no' stand there gapin' like a grisly
ghost at the door o' hell! Fling it into her gapin' mouth, if you think
she's goin' to bite you!" and the others laughed uneasily at Archie's
sardonic humor.

It was a nerve-trying experience for most of them, and they felt sick
with horror of it, in spite of the whisky and their grim jokes. The pit
was put idle, and the men went home. A gloom brooded over the whole
place.

Black Jock saw Mag Robertson's eyes staring at him, as he hurried over
the moor. He had not even stopped to wash himself, but merely stowing
some money into his pocket, was off, not deigning to answer his
daughter's enquiries as to what was wrong, or where he was going. Every
wild bird upon the moor seemed to shout at him in accusation; every
living thing seemed to scream out in terror as he approached.

He laughed a harsh laugh, like the cry of a wild beast, and the sheep
scampered away in fear. The wind moaned out of the gray clouds, which
lay thick upon the hidden hills, and there was an early iciness in its
breath as it groaned past; A soft, slushy sound rose from the moor at
every step, until it seemed that even earth protested. Eerie and sad the
moor was, gray and threatening the hills. Laughing at intervals that low
gurgle which sprang from fear, as some wild bird would start up at his
approach, he plodded on.

He did not know where he was going. He had no particular objective. He
did not know what line he would pursue. He only wanted to get away from
the scene of the tragedy, and those terrible eyes staring, which seemed
to follow him from behind every bush or clump of heather, till in the
gray mist it seemed as if the moor were alive with them.

Eyes everywhere. Eyes that never winked or moved. Eyes that never
trembled with recognition or glimmered with life. Dead eyes, cold eyes,
immovable and