As he finished his recital he gazed around him triumphantly. There was an audible sigh of relief from all. “That’s a burning shame,” said old Bess sympathetically, alluding to the loss of Maggie’s tail. “What a wonderful experience ye had, Tam,” cried Poosie Nancy admiringly. They all congratulated him on his narrow escape and pressed food and drink on him, showered him with words of praise, and in short made him out a daring hero, much to Souter’s disgust. He sat apart from the rest in dignified silence, his heart wounded and sore, for was not his late ghostly exploit completely ignored and forgotten? “Le Roi est mort, vive le Roi,” he might have said to himself. “Listen,” cried Tam, jumping to his feet, his face tense with eagerness. Faintly the patter, patter of a horse’s hoofs was heard drawing nearer and nearer. “’Tis only someone comin’ alang the highway,” said Souter carelessly. “’Tis my Maggie,” cried Tam almost tearfully. “She’s comin’ back for her master,” and with a bound he reached the open doorway. A few steps took him to the stone wall along the other side of which ran the King’s Highway. “She’s comin’, she’s comin’, my faithful Maggie is comin’,” he cried joyfully. “She must be an unco sight wi’out a tail, Tam,” sneered Souter. A roar of laughter greeted this sarcastic retort. “Dinna’ ye dare laugh,” cried Tam, turning on them furiously. The hoofbeats stopped suddenly. In the misty moonlight they caught a glimpse of a huge white creature, looking very spectral and ghost-like, impatiently tossing its head from side to side as if in search of something or someone. With a glad cry Tam vaulted the fence, old as he was, and dashed down the road, calling lovingly, “I’m comin’, Maggie, I’m comin’ to ye.” A whinny of delight, a snort of pleasure, greeted him as he reached his old mare’s side. Then like a phantom, the old gray mare and her rider sped swiftly past them on into the night and away toward Carrick. Silently they watched them, while the hoofbeats grew fainter and fainter and then were lost to sound. Such was Tam O’Shanter’s tale, the fame of which soon spread throughout all Ayrshire. CHAPTER IX In a sequestered spot beside the brook which runs through the lower end of the big field at Mossgiel farm, Robert sat dreamily watching the shallow brook at his feet slowly trickle along over the stones. He had left the field, his heart filled with anger against his brother, who had been reproving him for his thoughtlessness, his absent-mindedness; but gradually his temper had melted, and removing his bonnet from his fevered brow, he had given himself up to his reveries. A little later Gilbert found him there, his loose unbleached linen shirt open at the neck, eagerly writing on a scrap of paper he held in his hand.