"Ay," said David Armitt, "'deed, an' ye are richt. It's a sonsy bit swine." "We'll hae to be sayin' guid-nicht, Davit!" at last said Jamie Wardhaugh, rather limply. "Na, na, lads. It's but lanesome oot here--an' the morn's election day. We'll e'en see it in thegither. I see that ye hae a swatch o' the guid colour there. That's braw! Noo, there's aneuch o't for us a', Jamie; divide it intil five! Noo, pit ilka yin o' ye a bit in his bonnet!" One of the others again attempted to run, but he had not got beyond the dyke of the swine-ree when the cold rim of Mons Meg was laid to his ear. "She's fu' to the muzzle, Wullie," said the Old Tory; "I wadna rin, gin I war you." Willie did not run. On the contrary, he stood and shook visibly. "She wad mak' an awfu' scatterment gin she war to gang aff. Ye had better be oot o' her reach. Ye are braw climbers. I saw ye on my riggin' the nicht already. Climb your ways back up again, and stick every man o' ye a bit o' the bonny yellow in your bonnets." So the four jesters very reluctantly climbed away up to the rigging of David Armitt's house under the lowering threat of Mons Meg's iron jaws. Then the Old Tory took out his pipe, primed it, lighted it, and sat down to wait for the dawning with grim determination. With one eye he appeared to observe the waxing and waning of his pipe; and with the other, cocked at an angle, he watched the four men on his rigging. "It's a braw seat, up there, gentlemen. Fine for the breeks. Dinna hotch owre muckle, or ye'll maybe gang doon through, and I'm tellin' ye, ye'll rue it gin ye fa' on oor Meg and disturb her in her mornin' sleep. Hearken till her rowtin' like a coo! Certes, hoo wad ye like to sleep a' yer life ayont that? Ye wad be for takin' to the empty swine-ree that the sow gaed oot o', as weel as me." So the Old Tory sat with his blunderbuss across his knees, and comforted the men on the roof with reminiscences of the snoring powers of his spouse Meg. But, in spite of the entertaining nature of the conversation, Jamie Wardhaugh and the others were more than usually silent. They sat in a row with their chins upon their knees and the ridiculous yellow favours streaming from their broad blue bonnets. The morning came slowly. Gib Martin, the tailor, came to his door at ten minutes to six to look out. He had hastily drawn on his trousers, and he came out to spit and see what kind of morning it was; then he was going back to bed again. But he wished to tell the minister that he had been up before five that morning; and, as he was an elder, he did not want to tell a whole lie. Gib glanced casually at the sky, looked west to the little turret on the kirk to see the clock, and was about to turn in again, when something black against the reddening eastern sky caught his eye. "Preserve us a', what's yon on Davit Armitt's riggin'?" he cried.