“Now, sir, ye ken the wind very often taks a swee away round to the east i’ the night–time whan the wather’s gude i’ the harst months, an’ whanever this was the case, and the moon i’ the lift, I had e’en aye obliged to rise at midnight, and gang round the hill an’ stop the auld kimmers—very little did the turn—just a bit thraw yont the brae, an’ they kend my whistle, or my tike’s bark, as weel as I did mysel, still they wadna do wantin’t. Weel, ye see, sir, I gets up an’ gangs to the door—it was a bonny night—the moon was hingin o’er the derk brows o’ Hopertoody, an’ the lang black scaddaws had an eiry look—I turned my neb the tither gate, an’ I fand the air was gane to the eissel; the se’en starns had gaen oure the lum, an’ the tail o’ the king’s elwand was just pointin to the Muchrah Crags. It’s the very time, quo’ I to mysel, I needna think about lying down again—I maun leave Janet to lie doverin by hersel for an hour or twa—Keilder, my fine dog, where are ye?—He was as ready as me—he likes a play i’ the night–time brawly, for he’s aye gettin a broostle at a hare, or a tod, or a foumart, or some o’ thae beasts that gang snaikin about i’ the derk. Sae to mak a lang tale short, sir, off we sets, Keilder an’ me, an’ soon comes to the place. The ewes had been very mensefu’ that night, they had just comed to the march and nae farther; sae, I says, puir things, sin’ ye hae been sae leifu’, we’ll sit down an’ rest a while, the dog an’ me, an’ let ye tak a pluck an’ fill yersels or we turn ye back up to your cauld lairs again. Sae down we sits i’ the scaddaw of a bit derksome cleuch–brae—naebody could hae seen us; and ere ever I wats, I hears by the grumblin o’ my friend, that he outher saw or smelled something mair than ordinar. I took him in aneath my plaid for fear o’ some grit brainyell of an outbrik; and whan I lookit, there was a white thing and a black thing new risen out o’ the solid yird! They cam close by me; and whan I saw the moon shinin on their cauld white faces, I lost my sight an’ swarfed clean away. Wae be to them for droichs, or ghaists, or whatever they war, for aye sin’ syne the hogg–fence o’ the Quave Brae has been harried an’ traisselled till its little better nor a drift road—I darna gang an’ stop the ewes now for the saul that’s i’ my bouk, an’ little do I wat what’s to come o’ the hoggs the year.” “Well now, you have explained this much I believe to your own satisfaction—Remember then, you are upon oath—Who do you think it was that killed these men?” “I think it was outher God or the deil, but whilk o’ them, I coudna say.” “And this is really your opinion?” “Yes, it is.” “Have you seen any strangers about your master’s house of late?” “I saw one not long ago.” “What sort of a man was he?” “A douse–looking man wi’ a brown yaud; I took him for some wool–buyer.” “Was he not rather like a preacher?” “The man might hae preached for aught contrair till’t in his appearance—I coudna say.”