’Oh, I ken,’ interrupted his wife, ’it was owing to the Black Vaut o’ Dunure, nae doot! I declare I canna haud ye aff it. I jaloose that it maun hae been owing to the Black Vaut o’ Dunure that Mary Greg, a decent cook woman and a deacon in her trade, took up wi’ the likes o’ you—that mak’s yoursel’ nae better than a mountibank wi’ your yammer-yammering like a corn-crake aboot black vauts and roasted abbots. Fegs, I declare I could roast ye yoursel’. Ye are that muckle thocht and care to me, but ye wadna pay for the trouble. Even the Earl himsel’ couldna mak’ a profit oot o’ you—an’ a’ folk kens that he wad drive a flea to London market for the sake o’ the horns and hide!’ ’Wheesht, wheesht, honest woman!’ said Sir Thomas Tode, ’wha kens wha may be listenin’—maybe the Countess her very sel’.’ ’Faith, an’ I carena,’ cried the brave cook, tossing her head, ’she is a backstairs body at ony gate, but she canna fear me—na, brawly no’. I ken ower muckle. I ken things the Earl doesna ken. Certes an’ serve him richt—a young man like him—but three-an’-twenty, to mairry his grandmither. Though guid kens Mary Greg is no the woman to speak, that mairried nocht better than an auld skeleton hung on strings—for nae sounder reason than that it is the custom for the cook in a decent big hoose to tak’ up wi’ the chaplain.’ The kitchen began to fill, and I bethought me that I should be going; for it was not seemly that a gentleman and a squire should collogue overly long with all the orra serving-men and women in a great house. But before I could lift my sword and depart, there came in a dark, burly man with a sharp-cleft eagle’s face on him, his eyes very close together, and a contemptuous sneer that was liker a snarl, on his face. ’Good e’en to ye, John Dick,’ said the cook. ’Mind ye keep the peace, ye wull-cat, for there are to be no collieshangies in my kitchen!’ A voice called something querulously down the stairs. ’Coming the noo, my leddy,’ cried Mrs Tode, the cook of Cassillis, ’I am juist pittin’ on the pot—’ And she vanished up the stair. As soon as she was gone, Sir Thomas appeared to wake up from a dream. He looked eagerly around him. ’She will no be back for a while,’ he said. ’I might have a chance. I maun tell you of the roasting of the abbot. Man, I saw it—I was there. I held him on the ribs o’ the grate. I set him on the brander, and poured the oil on him that he might be roasted in sop. Oh, man, ye think I am a fool. Ever since that day, never hae I been alone without seeing the face o’ him, crying out for them to ding whingers into him, or blaw him up wi’ powder to ease him—the auld Earl girnin’ at him like a wild cat, and hunkering low to watch, with his hands on his knees. Oh, young men, never you put your hand to the torture of man, for it bides with you in the brain—just as, asleep or awake, night or day, I see the Black Vaut o’ Dunure!’