“I will do that, Maisie Macdonald, and thanks to you. It is not forgetting it I will be, nor you, good woman. And now, tell me, is it safe that I am? He called me a ‘scapegoat’; he, Andrew Blair! Can evil touch me between this and the sea?” “You must go to the place where the evil was done to you and yours--and that, I know, is on the west side of Iona. Go, and God preserve you. But here, too, is a sian that will be for the safety.” Thereupon, with swift mutterings she said this charm: an old, familiar Sian against Sudden Harm:-- “Sian a chuir Moire air Mac ort, Sian ro’ marbhadh, sian ro’ lot ort, Sian eadar a’ chlioch ’s a’ ghlun, Sian nan Tri ann an aon ort, O mhullach do chinn gu bonn do chois ort: Sian seachd eadar a h-aon ort, Sian seachd eadar a dha ort, Sian seachd eadar a tri ort, Sian seachd eadar a ceithir ort, Sian seachd eadar a coig ort, Sian seachd eadar a sia ort, Sian seachd paidir nan seach paidir dol deiseil ri diugh narach ort, ga do ghleidheadh bho bheud ’s bho mhi-thapadh!” Scarcely had she finished before she heard heavy steps approaching. “Away with you,” she whispered, repeating in a loud, angry tone, “Away with you! _Seachad!_ _Seachad!_” And with that Neil Ross slipped from the milk-shed and crossed the yard, and was behind the byres before Andrew Blair, with sullen mien and swift, wild eyes, strode from the house. It was with a grim smile on his face that Neil tramped down the wet heather till he reached the high road, and fared thence as through a marsh because of the rains there had been. For the first mile he thought of the angry mind of the dead man, bitter at paying of the silver. For the second mile he thought of the evil that had been wrought for him and his. For the third mile he pondered over all that he had heard and done and taken upon him that day. Then he sat down upon a broken granite heap by the way, and brooded deep till one hour went, and then another, and the third was upon him. A man driving two calves came towards him out of the west. He did not hear or see. The man stopped: spoke again. Neil gave no answer. The drover shrugged his shoulders, hesitated, and walked slowly on, often looking back. An hour later a shepherd came by the way he himself had tramped. He was a tall, gaunt man with a squint. The small, pale-blue eyes glittered out of a mass of red hair that almost covered his face. He stood still, opposite Neil, and leaned on his _cromak_. “_Latha math leat_,” he said at last: “I wish you good day.” Neil glanced at him, but did not speak. “What is your name, for I seem to know you?” But Neil had already forgotten him. The shepherd took out his snuff-mull, helped himself, and handed the mull to the lonely wayfarer. Neil mechanically helped himself. “_Am bheil thu ’dol do Fhionphort?_” tried the shepherd again: “Are you going to Fionnaphort?”