"It is nae worth the name of a story that," said Tam Craik; "for, in the first place, it is a lang story; in the second place, it is a confused story; and, in the third place, it ends ower abruptly, and rather looks like half a dozen o' stories linkit to ane anither's tails." The poet was by this time on his feet, and, coming forward to Charlie, he looked him sublimely in the face, stretched out his hand, and spoke as follows: "There is some being, wheresoe'er he dwells, that watches o'er the fates of mortal men: now do I know it. Yea, and that same being has spirits of all casts at his command, that run, and fly, and trim, and trim, and trim about this world. And it is even true that I have seen of these, yet knew them not. Look here, brave hero, man of heart and hand! and see if thou canst note thy mark once seen? Thy spur; thy A without the crossing stroke; thy V with the wrong end upmost,--is it here?" The poet bowed his breast, and exposed it to Charlie's eye, which, at the first scrutinizing look, discerned the mark he had formerly seen,--the mark of the spur of Ravensworth. Charlie's visage altered into lengthened amazement. It could scarcely have been more strongly marked when he was visited by the white lady on Tersit moor, even when he was glad to hide his face in the moss, and hold by the heather with both his hands. "And are you really the chap that I threw out at the window in the castle of Ravensworth," said he, "and boarded wi' auld lady Lawder? The creature that had a ghaist for its guardian, and a witch for its nurse? But what need I spier? My ain een convinces me. Gude faith but we are a queer set that are prickit up on the top o' this tower thegither! I am amaist terrified to enquire where you have been since the white lady took you away; for ye must have been in the fairy land, or the country o' the gruesome ghaists, or perhaps in a waur place than either." "We are a queerer set than you are thinking of," said Tam; "for here am I standing, Tam Craik, liege man and true to the brave Scottish Warden, and I carena wha kens it now; but I am neither less nor mair a man than just Marion's Jock o' the Dod-Shiel, that sliced the fat bacon, ate the pet lamb, and killed the auld miser, Goodman Niddery. Here's the same whittle yet, and ready at the service of ony ane that requires it for the same end. Od, we seem to ken mair about ane anither than ony ane o' us kens about ourselves."