He halted at once, retraced his steps, and hid himself in the bracken, for he knew from the descriptions given him that the Slyme ale-house lay there below him--the last place on the English border at which Alastair had been seen or heard of. The Slyme ale-house had an ill repute, and was said to be haunted moreover; none would lie there the night who had anything to lose--'twas the haunt of kites and 'corbie craws.' As he watched and waited there stole down from the fells above him 'oncome' of mist or 'haar' from the eastward, which soon drew a plaid of hodden grey above the shoulder of Shillmoor. On the lower level a ray of white light still showed like the gleam of a malevolent eye behind a mask. Meantime a cold mist came stealing up the valley. The eerie lonely aspect of all about him made Donald shiver and earnestly debate his intention. Spying about, he saw an outcrop of rock some two hundred yards further along the fell side. Thither he crawled like a rogue collie, and watched therefrom, keen-eyed as a kestrel, the ale-house below. He had some strips of meat with him and oatmeal in a bag, and with this he satisfied his hunger as he lay at watch. All the while the _piobaireachd_ was still sounding in his ears. Through the mist he could see two cows 'coming home' on the haugh below slowly and sedately to their milking. Now three figures emerged from the inn; a tall, thin man came first--a collie at his heels--that was at once sent off to round up a hirsel of ewes on the hill. A woman followed, calling 'guss-guss' to the pig routing on the bank; finally a third figure--short, misshapen--a hunchback, as the watcher noted, who called 'coop-coop' to a rough pony cropping grass in the intake beyond the inn. Shortly this gear was rounded up and driven into the walled enclosure--a half pound attached to the western end of the buildings. The three figures followed their stock within, and the watcher surmising that all were housed for the night cautiously made his way down the slope, but on a sudden all three reappeared, and the watcher dropped like a shot rabbit straight into a bed of thistles and nettles, fearful of discovery. It seemed that they were about to secure themselves and their flocks against evil by way of charm and spell, for round about the ale-house they bent their steps--the way of the sun--brandishing rowan boughs and chanting a fragment of ancient rhyme: '_By the rowan's power-- By the thorn's might Safe i' the bower Be all our insight!_' Having perambulated round their buildings and wall three successive times they disappeared within, and the watcher heard to his gratification the sound of bolt and bar being pushed home. The solitary watcher smiled to himself--the secret smile of the Highlander who has grasped the situation and knows how to make profit thereof unknown to others.