“Och! Aigh me!” cried Maron,—“Dear sirs, what’s the fock shootin at?—Eh?—I’m sure they hae nae battlers to fight wi’ there?—No ane—I wat, no ane. Aigh now, sirs! the lives o’ God’s creatures!—They never shoot nae callants, do they? Oh, na, na, they’ll never shoot innocent bairns, puir things! They’ll maybe hae been trying how weel they could vizy at the wild ducks; there’s a hantle o’ cleckins about the saughs o’ the lake. Hout ay, that’s a’.—He hasna forgotten to be gracious, nor is his mercy clean gane.” Thus poor Maron went on, and though she had but little discernment left, she perceived that there was a tint of indignant madness in her husband’s looks. His lips quivered—his eyes dilated—and the wrinkles on his brow rolled up to the roots of his dark grizzled hair, “Watie,” cried she, in a shrill and tremulous voice—“Watie, what ails ye—Oh! tell me what ails ye, Watie?—What’s the fock shooting at? Eh? Ye’ll no tell me what they’re shooting at, Watie?—Oh, oh, oh, oh!” Walter uttered no word, nor did his daughter, who sat in dumb astonishment, with her head almost bent to her feet; but old Nanny joined in full chorus with her mistress, and a wild unearthly strain the couple raised, till checked by Serjeant Roy Macpherson. “Cot’s curse be t‑‑ning you to te everlasting teal! fat too–whooing pe tat? Do you think that should the lenoch beg pe shot trou te poty, tat is te son to yourself? Do you tink, you will too–whoo him up akain?—Hay—Cot tamn, pe holding your paice.” CHAPTER X.