“Sassenach,” said she, “have ye iver read the Bratheim-hadth, the book of sacred judgment? Ye havn’t, more’s the pity, for from that book ‘The priest, the prince, the bard, the man of art, An’ you, too, in this vault might larn yer part.’ Howsomiver, as yer ignorant of mystheries, ye must mind what I tell ye, an’ the first _white_ thing ye sees on the ground grab it up quick, afore the evil wan hides it agin. Whisht—” She might well say “whisht,” for nearer and nearer, from the depths of the vault, came the clanking chain, and the hollow voice, crying, “My head, my head! ullagone, ullagone!” Max, not knowing whether he was on his head or his heels, allowed himself to be dragged on by the grana. The faint blue light was becoming fainter and fainter; the wailing “ullagone” was drawing nearer and nearer, when his foot stumbled against something; he stooped to look at it—it was white; he took it up—it was a skull! Max fainted. * * * * * When he returned to consciousness, he found himself in a vault indeed, but neither skulls nor groans, nor ghastly blue lights shed their weird influence round him, but a cheerful glow, as of many candles, lighted up the place; and as he looked round he saw, not headless Con, but more than one hogs_head_, for the vault was, in fact, a spacious cellar, contrived with much care by Master Dennis Connor’s grandfather, for the accommodation of those choice wines from Burgundy and elsewhere, which he had “loved, not wisely, but too well.” Max sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked about him: “Where am I,” said he; “and how did I come here?” Then, as memory returned, he asked, anxiously, “Where is she?” “She’s here!” and before him stood Grana of Carrigogunnel, who, tearing off her long grey horsehair locks and the rest of her costume, appeared in the proper character of his decidedly gaunt, but not at all horrible, cousin Ned. “Here I am, Max; I’ll wash off the walnut juice by-and-bye.” “Serve you right if it won’t come off,” said his mother. “It was too bad of you all to frighten this poor fellow nearly out of his life. It is well for you your father is not at home.” “’Tis so,” said the butler, who all the while had been privy to the joke; “they a’most kilt him intirely with fright. Niver mind ’em in there; ’twas only the skull of the ould white cow that ye tuck up! Ha, ha, ha! he, he, he!” and in spite of all their pity for the victim, Mrs. Connor and the girls could not help laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing.