Crockett Samuel Rutherford
Deep Moat Grange

CHAPTER XXVIII
SATURDAY, THE TENTH OF FEBRUARY

This was on the evening of Saturday, the tenth of February, a day never to be forgotten by me and by many more. I will try to place here in order the events which happened both at Deep Moat Grange and at Breckonside during the succeeding forty-eight hours. Of course, there is some part that can only be guessed at, and part is known solely by the maunderings of a criminal maniac. But still, I think, I have now got the whole pretty straight – as straight as it will ever be known on this side time. At any rate, it is my account or none. For no one else can know what I know.

As Mr. Ablethorpe had informed me, he was at a standstill in his researches. And the reason was that Mr. Hobby Stennis, the "Golden Farmer," as he was called, had departed on one of his frequent journeys.

So much was true. The master of Deep Moat Grange had indeed been absent for three days. But he had returned that same Saturday morning about ten o'clock. He had been disgusted to find the house empty. Probably, also, he was in a very bad temper owing to the failure of some combination or other he had counted upon. He found nothing prepared for his reception. Miss Orrin and her sisters were gone, and Mad Jeremy in one of his maddest and most freakish humours.

Now, of all times for arriving from a journey the noon is the worst. In the evening one dines. Later, one may have supper. Later still, one sleeps. In the morning everybody is astonished, and says: "How brisk and early you are to-day!" This pleases you, and you step about the place and come in sharp-set for breakfast. But in the forenoon it is a long time till lunch or dinner. Every one is busy. The clothes in which you have attempted to sleep feel as if filled with fine sand. You want to kick somebody, and if there is nobody whom you can reasonably kick, you feel worse.

Well, this is how Hobby felt. He wanted breakfast, and Mad Jeremy informed him that there was no bread. If he wanted any he could act as baker and bake a batch for himself.

"Go and get me something to eat, you rascal!" cried Mr. Stennis threateningly. And as he raised his riding-whip, Jeremy cowered. But it was with his body only. His eyes kept on those of his master, and they were those of a beast that has not been conquered – or, if vanquished, not subdued.

With impish spitefulness he set about gathering together all the orts and scraps of his own various disorganized meals, and brought them in, piled on a plate, to his master. Hobby Stennis was in no mood for amusement. He had his riding-whip still in his hand. He raised it, and, as one would strike a hound, he lashed Jeremy across the face. The madman did not flinch – he only stood, with a certain semblance of meekness, shutting his eyes as the blows descended, as a dog might. Once, twice, thrice, the whip cut across cheek and brow and jaw. Jeremy put up his fingers to feel the weals which rose red and angry. But he said nothing. Only his eyes followed his master as he went out.

Mr. Stennis, still furiously angry, threw plate and contents out of the window. They fell in the muddy, ill-cared-for yard. The plate shivered, and Jeremy, after whimpering a little like a punished child, went outside also, got on his knees, and patiently gathered them together again, swinging his head with the pitiable and impotent vengeance of a child. Only Mad Jeremy was very far indeed from being a child.

Muttering to himself, Mr. Stennis strode away across the drawbridge, which still bore the footmarks of the mob which, in the time of his illness, had crossed and recrossed it. Part of the balustrade had been kicked away, and hung by a tough twisted oak splinter, yawning over the Moat to the swirl of the wet February wind.

He walked forward, never hesitating a moment, his switch still in his hand, cutting at the brownish last year's brackens which, having doubled over halfway up the stem, now trailed their broad leaves in the bleak, black February sop.

Straight for Mr. Ball's the master of the Grange took his way. He followed the narrow path which, skirting the Backwater, crosses a field, and then drops over the high March dike into the road quite close to the cottage of Mr. Bailiff Ball. It was almost dinner-time, and with a word Mr. Stennis explained the situation. Mrs. Ball swept all the too genial horde of children into the kitchen, and set herself to serve a meal to the owner of the Grange and his bailiff.

The first plateful of Scots broth, with its stieve sustenance of peas, broad beans, and carrots, together with curly greens and vegetables almost without number, put some heart into Mr. Stennis – though his anger against Jeremy for the insult offered to him in his own house did not in the least cool.

"I always like broth that a man can eat conveniently with knife and fork," said Mr. Ball, striving to be agreeable. "Let me give you another plateful, sir."

But Mr. Stennis declined. The thought of Jeremy and his plate of orts returned to his mind and he choked anew with anger.

"I will teach him!" he said aloud, frowning and pursing his mouth.

Mr. Ball was far too wise a man to ask a question. He kept his place, worked the out-farms, deserved the confidence of his master, and convinced all the world that he had nothing to do with the ill-doings of the garrison at the "Big Hoose" by carefully guarding his speech. As a matter of fact, he made it his business to know nothing except in which field to sow turnips, and the probable price he would get for the wintering sheep that ate them out of the furrows.

Never was a man better provided with deaf and blind sides than Mr. Bailiff Ball. And, being a man with a family, he had need of them at Deep Moat Grange.

So he did not inquire who it was that Mr. Hobby Stennis meant to teach, nor yet what was the nature of the proposed lesson. If knowledge is power, carefully cultivated ignorance sometimes does not lack a certain power also.

Mr. Stennis ate of the boiled mutton which followed, and of the boiled cabbage withal – of potatoes, mealy and white, such as became the bailiff of several large unlet farms, and a man whose accounts had never been called in question by so much as a farthing.

Mr. Stennis ate of pancakes with jam rolled inside, and of pancakes on which the butter fairly danced upon the saffron and russet surfaces, so hot were they from the pan. He drank pure water. He refused to smoke, which Mr. Ball did every day and all day long. Mr. Stennis was an example – a man without vices.

Then these two, master and man – though by no means "like master, like man" – strolled about the fields discussing what was to be done with this parcel of bullocks, or what line of crops would do best on the Nether Laggan Hill, or the Broomy Knowe. Mr. Bailiff Ball wished heartily that his master would be gone. But he was not in a position to tell him so. At last, after two o'clock, Mr. Stennis suddenly, and without any preliminaries, bade him "good-day" and so betook himself through the misty willow copses along the Backwater, on which the haze of spring was greening already, towards the house of Deep Moat Grange.

*****

It was not the least of Elsie's troubles to keep herself "nice" in the back half of the monks' oven, near the bakehouse. Soap she had – a whole bar of it. And with the water which she dipped up from the trap-door behind her bed, she washed her single turn-over collar again and again – as well as her handkerchiefs and other "white things" – drying them rapidly and well in front of the dividing wall of the oven.

Starch, however, was beyond her, and ironing also. Still she was clean, which to Elsie Stennis was very near indeed to being godly. Jeremy had been idle for several days, but it chanced that that very Saturday morning he had set the furnace a-going, and had begun to prepare a batch of bread. Notwithstanding, he had been strangely unsettled. He had looked in several times on Elsie, even bringing in a little washing soda for her laundry work, but had departed always without saying anything of his intentions. Never on any occasion had he mentioned her fellow-prisoner, my father. And he, on his part, had strictly forbidden Elsie to say anything of their converse one with another. Not that Elsie would have done that in any case. She had too much the instinct of playing the game.

Usually when Jeremy came in, he would bring with him a Jew's-harp, and, curling himself up in one corner of the settle, he would extract tunes from that limited instrument with a strange weird combination of voice and twang of the metallic tongue.

Or with a mandolin, of which he had somehow become possessed, he would lean against the table, stretch his long legs, shake back his snaky curls, swinging his body to and fro, and improvise such music as never has been heard on earth before.

But ever and anon, between bursts of strange melody – for there was a certain attraction in every sound he produced – he would return to the subject of the new cargo of melodeons which had just been received at Yarrow's, down in the village. He would have one he declared, whatever old Hobby might say, the skinflint – who would not let poor Jeremy have a single goldpiece of all he had won for him by his own strong hands.

He would let him see, however, when he came back, who was master. And if he would not, then he, Jeremy Orrin, knew somebody – perhaps not so far away – who would give him not only one, but many melodeons, for one smell of the fresh air.

Elsie had the presence of mind not to appear to understand that he meant my father. It was, evidently, one of Jeremy's worst days. And Elsie wished that she had been able to get her knife back from my father, who had borrowed it the night before for a special piece of filing. The work was approaching completion, but just at the last moment he had come upon a bar of iron, buried, for what purpose he could not imagine, in the thickness of the wall. It ran diagonally, and would need to be cut in two places before there was any chance of the passage being finished between their prison chambers.

But the bar once cut, and the passage clear, my father, who, as part of his business, was learned in locks, did not anticipate from Elsie's description any serious trouble. The iron door and patent safety lock of his own prison house, recently arranged for by Mr. Stennis – he remembered the transaction – was, of course, beyond him. But if all was as he had been given to expect, the fastenings of Elsie's door – which communicated with the oven corridor – were of quite another type, and need not detain him long.

It was a little after eleven of the day, as Elsie judged by the light, when Jeremy came back after a somewhat prolonged absence. He brought her a piece of made bread – by which he meant bread bought from one of the vans that passed along the highway, but none of which came up to the Moat Grange.

"Hae," he said, smiling curiously, "there's for you! I hae nae time to be baking to-day. The maister's hame. Guid luck, an' lang life to him!"

He was speaking very curiously, laughing all the time – not offering threats and complaints as he had been doing before.

"And see!" he cried out, suddenly. "He has brought Jeremy a present wi' his ain hand – ay, wi' his ain hand he gied it him!"

And, lifting his finger, he drew it along three red weals on his brow and cheek, one after the other, ending at the corner of the jaw beneath the ear, from which a drop of blood trickled. And he laughed – all the time he laughed.

"A bonnie present," he repeated, "think ye not so, bonnie birdie? Ye never gat the like, and him your ain grandfather. Ah, but he's kind to Jeremy! And Jeremy will never forget it. Na – Jeremy followed him, like pussy cat after a plate of cream, to the March dyke, to the very door o' Bailiff Ball's house. Jeremy wadna let ony ill befall his maister this day. If a wulf, or a lion, or a bear had leaped upon Hobby Stennis, Jeremy wad hae strangled them like this —chirt– wi' his hands, as easy as ony thing. Ay, he wad that! For the kind kind present he fetched his faithfu' servant, naebody shall lay a hand on Hobby Stennis this day – except, maybe, Jeremy himsel' – ay, maybe, juist Jeremy himsel'. Ow, ay, but a' in the way o' kindness! the same as Hobby himsel'!"

And with that he picked up his Jew's-harp and breathed a fierce anger and scorn into the familiar words that was positively shocking to listen to —

 
Be it ever so humble,
There's no place like ho-o-o-me.
 

And he stopped to laugh between the lines. Elsie says that it fairly turned her cold to hear him. Though at that time she had, as she remembers, no fear for herself – which, when you come to think of it, was a very curious circumstance indeed. But then her turn was yet to come.

In Jeremy's absence, Elsie tried to tell my father all about it. But the coming and going of the madman that day were so uncertain, and his moods so dangerous, that she could not get matters half explained; nor yet any advice from my father, except not to cross the maniac, save in the last extremity. He offered to pass her back the knife, but Elsie, hearing that one end of the bar was already severed, and the other well through, refused, like the little brick she was, to take it.

Now, this part which follows can only be known imperfectly, because it concerns what happened when Hobby Stennis went back to his own house of the Moat Grange. There were two other sources of information – Jeremy's wild talk afterwards to Elsie, and certain signs and marks not easy of interpretation, which, however, tend to confirm in most points the madman's version.

After Mad Jeremy had come back from watching his master carefully into the house of the bailiff, he visited Elsie, and spoke the words, little reassuring, which I have already written down.

Then going up to the great parlour, out of which opened Mr. Stennis's weaving-room, he lit a lire of wood, which burned with much cheerful blaze. In front of this he sat down, with his fiddle in his hand. He had only drawn the bow across it, and began to tune up when his master walked in.

Possibly the noise irritated Hobby Stennis's none too steady nerves. Possibly, also, he was nettled at Jeremy's insistent request for the loan of a couple of sovereigns in order to go down and "price" the new cargo of melodeons received at Yarrow's, in the village. They had been ordered by my father before his disappearance, to satisfy a temporary local musical fever, and had only just arrived.

How exactly the thing happened is not known, but, at any rate, it is certain that Mr. Stennis refused to give Jeremy a farthing for any such purpose, and at the first sullen retort of the madman, turned fiercely upon him, wrenched from his hands the violin on which he had been fitfully playing and threw it on the fire. As the light dry wood caught and the varnish crackled, Mr. Stennis strode off, fuming, to his weaving-room to calm himself with a turn at the famous hand-loom. He sat down before it, and as the shuttle began to pass back and forth, his passion fell away in proportion as the fascination of the perfect handicraft gained on him.

But Jeremy stood gazing fixedly at the burning fiddle till the last clear flame died out, and in the great fireplace only a double couch of red ashes preserved the shape of a violin.

But, meantime, in the weaving-room the shuttle said click-clack in the great silence which seemed to have fallen all of a sudden upon Deep Moat Grange. In the red light, Jeremy stood erect, gazing entranced at the shape of his beloved instrument outlined on the hearth, and following one by one with his forefinger the ridged weals, from his cheek to his forehead and back again. And all about the twilight fell suddenly dim.

CHAPTER XXIX
THE CALLING OF ELSIE

Now, upon this very night of Saturday, the tenth of February, the same upon which Mr. Ablethorpe had come to see me, Elsie had lighted her candle early. Jeremy had been generous in the matter of lighting, though more than once he had proved himself forgetful of food. As the easiest manner of providing in quantity, he had brought up from Miss Orrin's store-room a complete box of candles, which he had opened for her in a summary manner with the back of his knife and the toe of his boot.

Elsie was therefore able to follow the somnolent progress of the adventures of the late Nicholas, M.D., a gentleman whose travels had led him to the Island of Trinidad. In the interests of the "Huttonian Theory" he had visited its famous pitch lake, on which he had found cattle grazing peacefully, as on an English meadow. She had just reached the following passage, and was nodding over it, the lines running together in the most curious manner, and her head sinking forward occasionally, only to be caught up with a sharp jerk, and the passage begun again with renewed determination.

"No scene can be more magnificent than that presented on a near approach to the north-western coast of Trinidad. The sea is not only changed from a light green to a deep brown colour, but has in an extraordinary degree that rippling, confused, and whirling motion which arises from the violence of contending currents, and which prevail here in so remarkable a manner, particularly at those seasons when the Orinoco is swollen with periodical rains, and vessels are frequently some days or weeks in stemming them, or perhaps are irresistibly borne before them far out of their destined track."

This was not clear to Elsie, but she had read the passage so often that the very whirling of these Orinocan currents, confused and rippling as they were, reacted subtly on her brain. She was just dropping over when a second and yet more soothing paragraph caught her eyes. (There is nothing like a volume of old travels for putting one to sleep – no extra charge for the prescription.)

"The dark verdure of lofty mountains, covered with impenetrable woods to the very summits, whence in the most humid of climates torrents impetuously rush through deep ravines to the sea" – this, carefully followed, beats sheep jumping over a stile all to fits – "between rugged mountains of brown micaceous schist" – sch – isssst – final recovery – "on whose cavernous sides the eddying surf dashes with fury. From the wonderful discoloration and turbidity of the water, Columbus sagaciously concluded that a very large river was near, and consequently – consequent-ly – a great continent!"

But to this continent Elsie never attained. She had succumbed to the sagacity of Columbus, and in a moment more her forehead rested peacefully upon the work of Mr. Nicholas, M.D., that renowned traveller.

Let a man or a woman learn this passage by heart, so that asleep or awake he can recall it even when he forgets his own name, and it will not be labour lost. He will live long in the land. His sleep shall be sweet, swift, and easy. Like Elsie he will never reach the haven of Columbus —

 
"Not poppy nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsie syrrups of the world
Shall ever medicine him to that sweete sleepe"
 

like to the prose which Mr. Nicholas, M.D., wrote as he approached the island of Trinidad.

Elsie slept. Time passed. My father filed and sawed in his recess, muttering to himself, his head nearly through into the dark cupboard; but one ear cast ever backward for the first grate of Mad Jeremy's key in the lock of his door.

Before him he could see the thin line of light which was the crack of the cupboard door. Beyond that sat Elsie with her head on her book, her mind a thousand leagues away.

But between my father and the sleeping girl there was that bar of iron, the upper part of which, by reason of some twist, was giving far more difficulty than the under.

So it came about that, without daring to make himself heard, my father was a witness of the final scene in the oven chamber behind the monks' bakehouse. He had a bar of iron against his shoulder and a file knife in his right hand, but for all that he was helpless to render any assistance till he should have cut through the thick diagonal of metal, and so made a way for himself into the dark cupboard.

All at once, my father, lying prone on his breast and sawing at the obstruction as best he could, with his arms in a most uncomfortable position for working – being higher than his head – became aware of an additional light in the room which he could before see only dimly illuminated by Elsie's candle.

A man had opened the outer fastenings. His dark shadow crossed the crack of light which was the edge of the cupboard door ajar. There was also a flash of a brighter light for a moment in my father's eyes, which was the swinging of the lantern the man carried. He laid his hand on the young girl's shoulder, and with a cry which went to Joseph Yarrow's heart, Elsie came back from the Orinoco, to find Mad Jeremy looking down upon her.

"Sleepin'?" he chuckled, "and over her book, the bonnie bairn! She's a teacher, a lassie dominie – they tell me. But Jeremy will learn her something this nicht that is better than a' the wisdom written in the buiks. Be never feared, lass.

 
"Ye are the heiress.
And I am the heir."
 

"But come ye wi' me, lassie, and this nicht we will drink o' the white wine and the red, till the bottom faa's oot o' the stoup. I promised it to you that, when I gat the melodeon, I wad play ye the mony grand tunes – and ye wad dance – dance, Elsie, dance, my bonnie, like a star through the meadow-mist or a dewdrap on a bit rose-leaf when the west winds swing the tree!"

All this time Elsie, gazing amazed at the man, rested silent in an awful consternation. She had never seen Mad Jeremy like this. His curly hair now hung straight and black. Perspiration stood in beads on his brow. He breathed quick and heavy, with a curious rattle in the throat. Slowly Elsie rose to her feet. She stood between my father and his view of the apartment, as it were, cutting it off. He bit his hand to keep him from doing or saying anything, knowing himself to be impotent, and that the best he could do was just to wait. Otherwise, Mad Jeremy would simply have come round and despatched him first. For never (says my father) did murder so plainly look out of a man's eyes as that night in the oven chamber.

Mad Jeremy took Elsie by the wrist.

"Come, lassie," he cried, with a lightsome skip of the foot – for, indeed, the man could not keep still a moment – "come awa'! The gray goose is gone, and the fox – the fox, the auld bauld cunnin' fox – is off to his den-O – den-O – den-O!"

And, with a turn of his lantern, he threw the candle Elsie had left burning upon the floor, trampled it out fiercely, and then, with one hand still on Elsie's wrist and the lantern swinging in the other, strode out, shouting his version of the refrain: "And the fox – the fox – the auld, yauld, bauld fox, is off to his den-O!"

But my father had been listening keenly for the click of the key in the lock. He had not heard it. The way to freedom, to help Elsie, lay open if only – ah, if only that bar would give way. And once more, in a kind of fury, he precipitated himself upon the stubborn, twisted iron.

Once outside, the freshness of the air fell upon Elsie like a blow in the face. So long confined below in her cell built of the hard whinstone of the country outcrops, she had forgotten the grip and sweetness of the wind which comes over the Cheviots – fresh and sweet even though it bring with it the snell sting of snow-filled "hopes" and the long dyke backs ridged with lingering white of last year's storms.

But there a yet greater astonishment awaited her. Jeremy's grip did not loosen upon her wrist. He led her toward the half-ruined drawbridge. It was within a few steps of the sham, ivy-grown ruin where they had emerged.

Before her eyes the house of Deep Moat Grange, all along its first floor, blazed with the light of a great feast. Beneath and above all was dark. But the great drawing-room, the weaving-room, and Mr. Stennis' bedroom seemed all filled with light.

Jeremy, who seemed to have eyes which saw in the dark, led her easily across the hall, up the staircase, in the completest darkness. Then at the top he suddenly threw the folding doors open, and with a certain formal parade of manners, announced: "Miss Elsie Stennis, of Deep Moat Grange."

Then laughing heartily at his wit, he entered after her, locking the door and pocketing the key. The large room was still ornamented in the old style, for the furniture within it had been taken over by Mr. Stennis when he bought the property. Miss Orrin had arranged wax candles in all the many-bracketed chandeliers. With some strange idea of the fitness of things, she had ordered these to be made extra large, red, and fluted. Jeremy had lighted all these, and the wide saloon, with its central carpet and waxed borders, was as light as day.

On the table, just undone from its wrappings, lay a tinselled and silver melodeon of the latest type. It was the same that Mr. Ablethorpe and I had seen Mad Jeremy buy that evening in our retail shop, and offer in payment the hundred-pound note.

Jeremy leaped upon the instrument, in three light, silent strides, like some graceful, dangerous animal. He swung it over his head with something like a cheer, and at once swept into a tide of melody. Elsie looked all about her. Nothing had been moved, save that on one of the sofas was the mark of muddy boots – Jeremy's for certain. For it was to that place he betook himself now. All the rest of the chamber bore the mark of Miss Orrin's careful hand, and her worst enemy did not deny that she was an excellent housekeeper.

"Where is my grandfather?" cried Elsie, in a pause of the stormy music. Jeremy answered her by a simple cock of the thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door of the weaving-room.

"He went ben there a while syne to work a stent at your wedding quilt, my bonnie lamb!

 
"Oh, I shall be the bridegroom.
And ye shall be the bride!"
 

With a sudden lift of hope, Elsie listened for the well-known "caa" of her grandfather's shuttle. What if only he were there! What if all the evil were quite untrue – the message that the hateful woman had brought on her way to school – was he not her own blood, the father of her mother? Surely he would save her! She moved toward the door with the instinct to call for help strong within her.

But instantly Mad Jeremy, who had been reclining carelessly on the sofa, motioned her away.

"Come nearer me," he commanded – "there, on the carpet by the fire, where Jeremy can see ye. Ah, it's a grand thing to bring hame a bonnie lass to her ain hoose – her hoose and mine! —

 
"I'se be the laird o't,
And she'll be the leddy;
She'll be the minnie o't,
And I'se be the daddy!"
 

Elsie made a dash for the windows, as if to leap out upon the lawn, but the movements of the maniac were far faster. In the wink of an eyelid he had laid aside his melodeon and caught her again by the wrist.

"Na, na," he said, "the like o' that will never, never do! There's nae sense in that ava'! See!"

And leading her to the window he showed her the bars which her grandfather had caused to be put up to guard his treasures. It was as difficult to get out of Deep Moat Grange as to get in. That was what it amounted to, and Elsie recognized it clearly and immediately.

"My grandfather!" she moaned, half crying with pain and disappointment. "Where is he – I want to speak to my grandfather!"

Jeremy made a mysterious sign to command silence, pointed again over his shoulder at the door of the weaving-room, and answered —

"He ben there. But Hobby was in nae guid temper the last time I spak' wi' him. It is better to let him come to a while. He aye does that at the weavin', when he is nettled at onything!"

"But I do not hear the shuttle," objected Elsie. "How am I to know he is there – that you are speaking the truth?"

"Oh, he will hae broken a thread – maybe the silver cord – ye ken he was rinnin' ane through and through, to gar the 'Elsie Stennis' stand oot bonnie on the web! Ech, ay, the silver cord, the gowden bowl, the almond blossom – Hobby could weave them a' – terrible grand at the weavin' is Hobby. But he's an auld man! Maybe he will hae rested a wee. He has but yae candle. Plenty enough, says you, for an auld man. He'll hae fa'en asleep amang the bonnie napery, wi' his head on the beam and his hand that tired it wadna caa the shuttle ony mair!"

Then suddenly the madman took another thought.

"But what am I thinkin' on?" he cried. "The world is not for dune auld dotards, but for young folk – young folk – braw folk – rich folk like you and me, Elsie! See to that!"

He drew out the same large pocket-book that had dazzled the eyes of our shopmen at Yarrow's, and opening it, showed Elsie the rolls and rolls of notes, all of high denominations unseen before in Breckonside.

"There's a fortune there, lassie," he said, "a' made by Jeremy – every penny o't by Jeremy, for you and me, hinny! It bocht the melodeon here, that Hobby wadna gie this puir lad a shilling for. And it will mak' you the bonniest and the brawest wife i' the parish! Hark ye to that, Elsie! There's a fair offer for ye, the like o' that ye never heard! But noo, the nicht is afore us. I will pipe to ye, and ye shall dance. Oh, but though I say it that shouldna – ye are fell bonnie when ye dance!

"Jeremy's heart gangs oot to ye then. If onybody was to look at ye – that much – fegs, Jeremy wad put a knife into him – ay, ay, and the thing wadna be to dae twice! Oh, there's a heap o' braw lads in Breckonside that wadna be the waur o' a bluid lettin'! There's that upsettin' young Joe Yarrow for yin. I saw him the night standin' watchin' me as I was payin' for the melodeon, as if the siller was counterfeit! Certes, if Jeremy likit he could buy up the Yarrows ten times ower, faither and son!"

Then as the madman went off toward the door he lifted his finger with the half-playful air with which one admonishes a child.

"Jeremy can trust ye?" he queried. "Ay, ay, forbye the windows are barred, and the granddad has his door locked – that I ken weel. He aye sleeps best that gate! Bide here like a denty quean – wait for Jeremy. He will bring in the feast, the grand banquet in the cups o' silver an' gowd, the white wine and the reid – the best baker's bread, honey frae the kame, and a' the denty devices o' the King's ain pastry-cook – that were bocht for coined siller in Breckonside! Then, after the feast ye shall dance – dance, Elsie, as danced that other bonnie quean they caaed the dochter o' Herodias. Eh, but she maun hae made thae soldiers of Herod and thae grand wise-like lords yerk and fidge juist to watch her. But, for your dance, Elsie lassie. Gin ye be a wise bairn and dance it bonnie, Jeremy will gie ye, no the half o' his kingdom, but the hale! Ay, Jeremy's kingdom a' complete!"