"The fowk made a ring, but nane dared bid us to stop. Some cried, 'Fetch the polis!' But little we cared for that, for we kenned brawly that the polisman had gane awa' to Whunnyliggate to summon auld John Grey for pasturing his coo on the roadside, as soon as ever he heard that M'Kelvie an' me war drinkin' in the toon. Oh, he's a fine polisman! He's aye great for peace. Weel, I was thinkin' that the next time I got in my left, it wad settle M'Kelvie. An' what M'Kelvie was thinkin' I do not ken, for M'Kelvie is nocht but an Irishman. But oot o' the grund there raise a great muckle man in grey claes, and took fechtin' M'Kelvie an' me by the cuff o' the neck, and dauded oor heids thegither till we saw a guano-bagfu' o' stars. "'Noo, wull ye shake hands or come to the lock-up?' says he. "We thocht he maun be the chief o' a' the chief constables, an' we didna want to gang to nae lock-ups, so we just shook haun's freendly-like. Then he sent a' them that was lookin' on awa' wi' a flee in their lugs. "'Forty men,' says he, 'an' feared to stop twa men fechtin'--cowards or brutes, eyther o' the twa!' says he. "There was a bailie amang them he spoke to, so we thocht he was bound to be a prince o' the bluid, at the least. This is what I thocht, but I canna tell what M'Kelvie thocht, for he was but an Irishman. So it does not matter what M'Kelvie thocht. "But the big man in grey says, 'Noo, lads, I've done ye a good turn. You come and hear me preach the morn in the kirk at the fit o' the hill.' 'A minister!' cried M'Kelvie an' me. A wastril whalp could hae dung us owre with its tail. We war that surprised like." So that is the way "Drucken" Bourtree became a God-fearing quarryman. And as for M'Kelvie, he got three months for assaulting and battering the policeman that very night; but then, M'Kelvie was only an Irishman! EPILOGUE IN PRAISE OF GALLOWAY _New lands, strange faces, all the summer days My weary feet have trod, mine eyes have seen; Among the snows all winter have I been, Rare Alpine air, and white untrodden ways_. _From the great Valais mountain peaks my gaze Hath seen the cross on Monte Viso plain, Seen blue Maggiore grey with driving rain, And white cathedral spires like flames of praise_. _Yet now the spring is here, who doth not sigh For showery morns, and grey skies sudden bright, And a dear land a-dream with shifting light! Or in what clear-skied realm doth ever lie_, _Such glory as of gorse on Scottish braes, Or the white hawthorn of these English Mays?_ _Night in the Galloway Woods_. Through the darkness comes the melancholy hoot of the barn owl, while nearer some bird is singing very softly--either a blackcap or a sedge-warbler. The curlew is saying good-night to the lapwing on the hill. By the edge of the growing corn is heard, iterative and wearisome, the "crake," "crake" of the corn-crake.