‘Brawly,’ was the reply; and without further civilities, the pair proceeded to get the cattle under way. This, as well as almost all the herding, was the work of a pair of comely and intelligent dogs, directed by Sim or Candlish in little more than monosyllables. Presently we were ascending the side of the mountain by a rude green track, whose presence I had not hitherto observed. A continual sound of munching and the crying of a great quantity of moor birds accompanied our progress, which the deliberate pace and perennial appetite of the cattle rendered wearisomely slow. In the midst my two conductors marched in a contented silence that I could not but admire. The more I looked at them, the more I was impressed by their absurd resemblance to each other. They were dressed in the same coarse homespun, carried similar sticks, were equally begrimed about the nose with snuff, and each wound in an identical plaid of what is called the shepherd’s tartan. In a back view they might be described as indistinguishable; and even from the front they were much alike. An incredible coincidence of humours augmented the impression. Thrice and four times I attempted to pave the way for some exchange of thought, sentiment, or—at the least of it—human words. An _Ay_ or an _Nhm_ was the sole return, and the topic died on the hill-side without echo. I can never deny that I was chagrined; and when, after a little more walking, Sim turned towards me and offered me a ram’s horn of snuff, with the question ‘Do ye use it?’ I answered, with some animation, ‘Faith, sir, I would use pepper to introduce a little cordiality.’ But even this sally failed to reach, or at least failed to soften, my companions. At this rate we came to the summit of a ridge, and saw the track descend in front of us abruptly into a desert vale, about a league in length, and closed at the farther end by no less barren hilltops. Upon this point of vantage Sim came to a halt, took off his hat, and mopped his brow. ‘Weel,’ he said, ‘here we’re at the top o’ Howden.’ ‘The top o’ Howden, sure eneuch,’ said Candlish. ‘Mr. St. Ivey, are ye dry?’ said the first. ‘Now, really,’ said I, ‘is not this Satan reproving sin?’ ‘What ails ye, man?’ said he. ‘I’m offerin’ ye a dram.’ ‘Oh, if it be anything to drink,’ said I, ‘I am as dry as my neighbours.’