It was a strange sight that, with the forlorn place, and the crying from the sea, and the blinking weird light and the black figures skipping like ghosts beneath a starlit sky. They danced till all the breath was clean gone out of them, and they stopped just because the music was no longer there. For unseen to any Muckle John had stolen softly away playing as he went, passing like a shadow, or a dream, or a memory, into the vast darkness. They stood for a space catching the lingering notes of it, and then it was gathered into the night, and became part of the sea, and the wind, and the soft song of the rustling heath, and so was gone. And that was the last of Muckle John. PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD. LONDON