"Every book that I can lay my hands on, from the ’Scots’ Worthies’ down to ’Helen of the Glen,’ and not only once, but over and over again, until I could repeat the most of them off by heart. Next to the lives of these good and holy men, whose names are an honour and glory to Scotland," pursued the labourer, "James Renwick’s sermons is the book most prized by me—ay! there are no preachers like him now-a-days! What would I not have given to have been with him on some bonnie hill-side when he was holding forth to the faithful few privileged to hear him! Have you ever read his sermons?" he inquired. I replied in the negative. He then continued, "Well, all I can say is, you have missed something good, so full are they of sound, wholesome doctrine and Christian principles; how he must have been inspired by the cause he espoused, to be able to preach such truly comforting doctrines!" "It is a pity," I said, "but Sir Robert Grierson had heard him, he might have been converted——" "Him!" interrupted the old man; "no, no; he was a brand reserved for the burning; no sermons, however forcible, would have had the slightest effect on his black nature; his heart would have resisted the knocks of the minister, as the stone resisteth the hammer." Here the labourer, by way of illustration, inflicted with his implement a vigorous stroke on an obdurate piece of rock, which effectually resisted all his attempts to reduce its dimensions. "That hill," I observed, alluding to the one previously mentioned by Mrs. Walker, "seems to have been the theatre of many an evil deed; was it not there that the Laird executed judgment on many of the poor men who chanced to fall into his power?" The old man gazed for a moment on the hill in question, then with a shake of the head, accompanied by a deep-drawn sigh, confirmed Mrs. Walker’s statements to their fullest extent, dwelling at considerable length on the many acts of butchery perpetrated on the summit of the eminence, which, covered with a sombre mass of dark firs, frowned gloomily upon us. "Is there no story you can recall to remembrance connected with some of Sir Robert Grierson’s wild exploits?" I inquired, fully persuaded from the old man’s garrulity that his memory was like a well-stored garner in respect to these matters, and that a little time and leisure were all that was necessary to produce some thrilling narration of horror—some marvellous tale still treasured up in the breasts of a few, relating to the days of persecution. I was not disappointed. The old man, thus appealed to, stood silent for a moment, as if buried in deep thought, then throwing his hammer carelessly from him, he leisurely seated himself on the pile of stones beside him, and after a few preparatory hems, commenced the following tale, which clothed in my own language is now presented to the reader.