‘My bairn! my bairn!’ cried the distracted father, ‘where can he be?’ A dozen mouths were opened to communicate hopes which no one felt. Some one at length mentioned--the gipsies! In a moment Ellangowan had reascended the cliffs, flung himself upon the first horse he met, and rode furiously to the huts at Derncleugh. All was there dark and desolate; and, as he dismounted to make more minute search, he stumbled over fragments of furniture which had been thrown out of the cottages, and the broken wood and thatch which had been pulled down by his orders. At that moment the prophecy, or anathema, of Meg Merrilies fell heavy on his mind. ‘You have stripped the thatch from seven cottages; see that the roof-tree of your own house stand the surer!’ ‘Restore,’ he cried, ‘restore my bairn! bring me back my son, and all shall be forgot and forgiven!’ As he uttered these words in a sort of frenzy, his eye caught a glimmering of light in one of the dismantled cottages; it was that in which Meg Merrilies formerly resided. The light, which seemed to proceed from fire, glimmered not only through the window, but also through the rafters of the hut where the roofing had been torn off. He flew to the place; the entrance was bolted. Despair gave the miserable father the strength of ten men; he rushed against the door with such violence that it gave way before the momentum of his weight and force. The cottage was empty, but bore marks of recent habitation: there was fire on the hearth, a kettle, and some preparation for food. As he eagerly gazed around for something that might confirm his hope that his child yet lived, although in the power of those strange people, a man entered the hut. It was his old gardener. ‘O sir!’ said the old man, ‘such a night as this I trusted never to live to see! ye maun come to the Place directly!’ ‘Is my boy found? is he alive? have ye found Harry Bertram? Andrew, have ye found Harry Bertram?’ ‘No, sir; but-’ ‘Then he is kidnapped! I am sure of it, Andrew! as sure as that I tread upon earth! She has stolen him; and I will never stir from this place till I have tidings of my bairn!’ ‘O, but ye maun come hame, sir! ye maun come hame! We have sent for the Sheriff, and we’ll seta watch here a’ night, in case the gipsies return; but YOU--ye maun come hame, sir, for my lady’s in the dead-thraw.’ Bertram turned a stupefied and unmeaning eye on the messenger who uttered this calamitous news; and, repeating the words ‘in the dead-thraw!’ as if he could not comprehend their meaning, suffered the old man to drag him towards his horse. During the ride home he only said, ‘Wife and bairn baith--mother and son baith,--sair, sair to abide!’