Arranged marriage -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Love stories; Psychological fiction; Scotland -- Fiction; Women murderers -- Fiction
“I tell ye,” said the sibyl, “her winding sheet is up as high as her
throat already, believe it wha list. Her sand has but few grains to rin
out; and nae wonder—they’ve been weel shaken. The leaves are withering
fast on the trees, but she’ll never see the Martinmas wind gar them
dance in swirls like the fairy rings.”
“Ye waited on her for a quarter,” said the paralytic woman, “and got
twa red pieces, or I am far beguiled?”
“Ay, ay,” answered Ailsie, with a bitter grin; “and Sir William Ashton
promised me a bonny red gown to the boot o’ that—a stake, and a chain,
and a tar-barrel, lass! what think ye o’ that for a propine?—for being
up early and doun late for fourscore nights and mair wi’ his dwining
daughter. But he may keep it for his ain leddy, cummers.”
“I hae heard a sough,” said Annie Winnie, “as if Leddy Ashton was nae
canny body.”
“D’ye see her yonder,” said Dame Gourlay, “as she prances on her grey
gelding out at the kirkyard? There’s mair o’ utter deevilry in that
woman, as brave and fair-fashioned as she rides yonder, than in a’ the
Scotch withces that ever flew by moonlight ower North Berwick Law.”
“What’s that ye say about witches, ye damned hags?” said Johnie
Mortheuch [Mortsheugh]; “are ye casting yer cantrips in the very
kirkyard, to mischieve the bride and bridegroom? Get awa’ hame, for if
I tak my souple t’ye, I’ll gar ye find the road faster than ye wad
like.”
“Hegh, sirs!” answered Ailsie Gourlay; “how bra’ are we wi’ our new
black coat and our weel-pouthered head, as if we had never kenn’d
hunger nor thirst oursells! and we’ll be screwing up our bit fiddle,
doubtless, in the ha’ the night, amang a’ the other elbo’-jiggers for
miles round. Let’s see if the pins haud, Johnie—that’s a’, lad.”
“I take ye a’ to witness, gude people,” said Morheuch, “that she
threatens me wi’ mischief, and forespeaks me. If ony thing but gude
happens to me or my fiddle this night, I’ll make it the blackest
night’s job she ever stirred in. I’ll hae her before presbytery and
synod: I’m half a minister mysell, now that I’m a bedral in an
inhabited parish.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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