’Then, yet more secretly, I followed them across the sandhills, and on the very edge on the links, where the turf ceases underfoot and there is only sand, John Mure and his son, this man before you, waited. For a while they stood listening and talking low together, so that, though I lay hidden behind a whin which overgrew a little turfy dell, I could neither hear what was said, nor yet by reason of the bareness of the sand, dared I to adventure nearer them. ’But they waited not long before one came down to meet them over the turf, bringing a lad with him. Then, immediately James Mure whistled a call, and the reply came back in like manner. ’"You are late, James Bannatyne," I heard John Mure the elder say; "what has taigled you?" ’"My sea cloth is not so well accustomed to night ploys as your cloak of grey!" the man growled as he came along sullenly enough. ’Then the three men of them walked a little apart, and came in their circuit very near to the hollow where I lay. While down on the shore the young lad stood and yawned, with his hands in his pockets, like one that shivers and wishes he were back in bed. Nor had he, I am confident, even then any thought of evil. ’But the talk of the three, as I heard it in snatches, was black and bitter. ’The darkest counsel was that of the man who stands here, for James Mure said only, "The dead are no tale-pyets." And again, "We have had enough of this silly, endless, hiding-and-seeking work. Let the earth hide him, or the sea keep him—and be done with it!" ’Now John Mure the elder, and the man whom they called James Bannatyne, seemed at the least inclined to discuss milder councils. Bannatyne was all for sending the lad over to Ireland. And John Mure listened as though he might be persuaded. Yet I knew his guile, for even when he stood with his back to his son, I saw him lift up his hand for a signal. And with that and no more, James Mure rushed at the poor lad and overbore him to the ground. And there upon the sands of the seashore, this James Mure set his knee on the bairnie’s breast, and with bloody hands choked and worried him till there was no life left in the lad. And his father also went and held the lad when he fought, his white, reverend beard waggling in the wind, till at last the bairn lay still. But James Bannatyne stood by and clasped his hands, as the boy tossed and struggled for his dear young life, for I think he was now mainly sorry that he had brought the lad to his death. ’Then I could stand the vileness no longer without protest. So I, Marjorie Kennedy, even though I well knew that they would certainly do the like to me, rose from my hiding-place in the sand-hollow, and cried, "Murderers, cease from your cruel work. God will come and judge you!" ’Whereat John Mure came hastily to where I stood and gripped me. "You have seen all," he said, "then you must die. Let us see if God will come and help you!"