“It’s nothing,” said Kenneth, “nothing, Dugald. I’m not afraid, if you are.”
“Fear!” replied the stalwart Highland keeper. “Dugald never feared the face o’ clay. But look how they’re shakin’ yet. These dogs hear voices we cannot listen to and live; they see things that human eyes, dare not scan. Dinna deny it, Kenneth, lad; dinna seek to deny it.
“Do you remember, Kenneth, that dreary, dark December night two years ago, when Walie’s wife—goodness be about us—went and hanged herself in the woods o’ Alva, and how Shot there sat a’ the livelong night on the top of the old turf wall and howled so mournfully? It made me tremble in my bed to hear him. And did you no’ tell me that your Kooran did the same one night the year before last, and that next morning a hat and a stick were found on the brink o’ Beattie’s mill-dam, and poor Jock Grey’s body stark and stiff—”
“Stop! stop!” cried Kenneth. “This is no time of night for such stories. Kooran, come on.”
And the boy began to lead the way up through the garden to Nancy’s door.
“Just a moment,” said Dugald, laying a hand on Kenneth’s shoulder. “Have you got your flute?”
“Yes.”
“Well, just give us a toot. If Nancy has company that’s no’ canny, it will give them time to bolt up the chimney. Sirs! Sirs!”
Kenneth laughed, put his flute together, and started a merry air.
“The Campbells are coming; hurrah, hurrah?” was the tune he played.