"Did Muckle John not give ye a message for me?" he asked. "It will be long ere we see him again."
Castleleathers took a keek over his shoulder.
"To be honest, Rob," he said, "I never saw him at all. Maybe he's coming or maybe he is no sae far off as ye think."
"He was the queer yin," remarked Mrs. Fraser, "though he had a way with him, mind ye. That night in Inverness, Rob—that was a scene. There was I dancing like a young yin, and all to a scrap of a tune he was whistling something like this..." and she tried to whistle, but failed most signally.
"No," said Rob, "it was more like this," but he had not the twist of it at all.
"Ye're all out together," cried a voice in the night. "Was it no this?" and the west wind carried the rhythm of the reel into the night.
"Where is he?" whispered Castleleathers, looking about.
"It's no canny," said his wife with a shiver.
"Muckle John!" cried Rob.
The tune stopped, and suddenly as it were in the midst of them with the ghastly thing over their heads creaking and clacking, the voice of Muckle John was singing, and these were the words he sang: