Warlock o' Glenwarlock: A Homely RomanceMacDonald, George
General
Warlock o' Glenwarlock: A Homely Romance
MacDonald, George
Christian fiction; Highlands (Scotland) -- Fiction
“Weel, it was an awfu’ like thing, ye may be sure, to quaiet fowk,
sic as we was a’--’cep’ for the drinkin’ an’ sic like, sin’ ever
the auld captain cam, wi’ his reprobat w’ys--it was a sair thing,
I’m sayin’, to hae a deid man a’ at ance upo’ oor han’s; for, lat
the men du ’at they like, the warst o’ ’t aye comes upo’ the women.
Lat a bairn come to mischance, or the guidman turn ower the kettle,
an’ it’s aye, ‘Rin for Jean this, or Bauby that,’ to set richt what
they hae set wrang. Even whan a man kills a body, it’s the women
hae to mak the best o’ ’t, an’ the corp luik dacent. An’ there’s
some o’ them no that easy to mak luik dacent! Troth, there’s mony
ane luiks bonnier deid nor alive, but that wasna the case wi’ the
auld captain, for he luikit as gien he had dee’d cursin’, as he
bude to du, gien he dee’d as he lived. His moo’ was drawn fearfu’,
as gien his last aith had chokit him. Nae doobt they said ’at wad
hae ’t they kent, ’at hoo that’s the w’y wi’ deith frae slayin’ wi’
the swoord; but I wadna hear o’ ’t; I kenned better. An’ whether he
had fair play or no, the deith he dee’d was a just ane; for them
’at draws the swoord maun periss by the swoord. Whan they faun’
’im, the richt han’ o’ the corp was streekit oot, as gien he was
cryin’ to somebody rinnin’ awa’ to bide an’ tak ’im wi’ ’im. But
there was anither at han’ to tak ’im wi’ ’im. Only, gien he tuik
’im that same nicht, he cudna hae carried him far. ’Deed, maybe, the
auld sinner was ower muckle aven for _him_.
“They brocht him hame, an’ laid the corp o’ him upo’ his ain bed,
whaur, I reckon, up til this nicht, he had tried mair nor he had
sleepit. An’ that verra nicht, wha sud I see--but I’m jist gaein’
to tell ye a’ aboot it, an’ hoo it was, an’ syne ye can say
yersel’s. Sin’ my ain auld mither dee’d, I haena opent my moo’ to
mortal upo’ the subjec’.”
The eyes of the two listeners were fixed upon the narrator in the
acme of expectation. A real ghost-story, from the lips of one they
knew, and must believe in, was a thing of dread delight. Like
ghosts themselves, they were all-unconscious of body, rapt in
listening.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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