"He was the queer yin," remarked Mrs. Fraser, "though he had a way with him, mind ye. That night in Inverness, Rob--that was a scene. There was I dancing like a young yin, and all to a scrap of a tune he was whistling something like this..." and she tried to whistle, but failed most signally. "No," said Rob, "it was more like this," but he had not the twist of it at all. "Ye're all out together," cried a voice in the night. "Was it no this?" and the west wind carried the rhythm of the reel into the night. "Where is he?" whispered Castleleathers, looking about. "It's no canny," said his wife with a shiver. "Muckle John!" cried Rob. The tune stopped, and suddenly as it were in the midst of them with the ghastly thing over their heads creaking and clacking, the voice of Muckle John was singing, and these were the words he sang: _Swing--swing in the hail and snow, Dead banes clinkin' frae dawn to nicht, Creak--creak to the hoodie crow From rising sun to grey moonlicht._ _A lark soars blithe frae the sands o' Leith, "Life's but a braw claymore," sang he. "Death is nought but an empty sheath" Creak, creak, creak, groans the Gibbet Tree._ _The waves gang jinkin' ower the shore, A seagull laughs as he skims the sea, But a feckless loon will laugh nae more While he swings to and fro on the Gibbet Tree._ _The nicht creeps back o'er the cold grey tide, The wind sighs over the barren lea, Oh wad that the dark could for ever hide The feckless loon on the Gibbet Tree._ _There comes a lad at the turn o' nicht, "It's hereabouts that he said he'd be-- There's a ship at sea with a golden licht, But no Muckle John 'neath the Gibbet Tree."_ _Swing--swing in the hail and snow, Dead banes clinkin' frae dawn to nicht, Creak--creak to the hoodie crow From rising sun to grey moonlicht._ It was above them up in the air or they were going mad. Suddenly the song ceased and with a great rattle of chains the gibbet's burden dropped with a clatter, and at that Mrs. Fraser came dangerously near to swooning for the first and last time in her life. [Illustration: WITH A GREAT RATTLE OF CHAINS THE GIBBET'S BURDEN DROPPED WITH A CLATTER.] IT WAS MUCKLE JOHN! "Good evening to you," he cried, "and rare luck to the bride and bridegroom. Well, Rob, so it's fine to be a free man and a good ending to a brave cause." "But you, Muckle John--what of you? Do you go to sea to-night?" He shook his head. "Not yet," he said, and held Rob by the hand for a moment saying nothing. Then taking his whistle from his pocket he broke into a jig, and in the yellow light of the lantern he started dancing under the empty gibbet tree. It took doucer people than the Frasers to stand still when that kind of thing was afoot. Once again Rob and his aunt tripped it finely, and Castleleathers, that mountain of flesh and brawn, was not backward.