It would seem that it first appeared on the night of a dreadful storm, centuries ago--a night when the wind howled and roared round Essilmont, and the Ythan, white and foaming, tore in full flood through the dreary heather glens towards the sea, and when the thunder peals seemed to rend heaven; yet amid all this elemental din the gate-ward at Essilmont heard the baying of a dog at the gate, and, opening it, a large black hound came in, and was permitted to crouch by the hall fire, and when the embers of the latter began to sink and fade away, it was remarked by those who were there that the eyes of the great shaggy hound, as it lay with its long sharp nose resting on its outstretched paws, had in them a strangely diabolical and malicious glitter as they roved from face to face. 'I dislike the aspect of this brute,' said the Laird to the Lady of Essilmont, and as he spoke the hound began to lash the floor with his tail. 'Let him be driven forth.' 'I pray you not,' said she. 'The poor animal may have lost its master.' On this the hound, as if grateful to her, licked her white hand with his red tongue, and she stroked him tenderly. She was Annot Udney, a daughter of the Laird of Auchterellon, and reputed as a witch, and the possessor of a remarkable magic crystal ball, with which she could work good or evil, but the latter most frequently. 'Annot, its aspect chills me,' said the laird again. 'Chills you, Ranald?' exclaimed the lady. 'You whose spear was foremost in the fray last week at the Red Harlaw.' 'Yes--I shudder, and know not why,' he replied, and signed himself with the cross, on which the hound instantly snarled, and showed all his white glistening teeth, while his eyes glared like red and fiery carbuncles. No more was wanting now to prove to Ranald Cheyne that the animal was a thing of evil, so snatching up a halbert he was about to cleave his head when the lady interposed with outstretched arms and a cry of dismay. She was a woman of rare beauty and great sweetness of manner, notwithstanding her evil repute; so she stayed her husband's arm, and said, 'Let me put forth the hound.' 'You, Annot?' 'Yes--I,' she replied; and patting the dog's rough head it rose and followed her to the outer gate, and now the wild storm which shook the walls some time before was over; it seemed to have spent its fury and passed away. A little time elapsed; Annot Cheyne did not return: the laird became anxious and impatient, and as all the household were now abed he followed her. The sky was cloudless now, and the white moonlight fell aslant in silvery sheets over the barbican wall, and in the flood of it that streamed through the outer archway he saw his wife caressing the gigantic hound. 'Annot!' cried he, impatiently. She made no answer, but stooped and again caressed the dog.