'"'Tis a moonlicht nicht, my Lord Claverhouse," he cries; "we'll hunt oor quarry ower muir an' fell, an' aiblins hae mair luck than we had i' the day; we'll run the auld brock to ground before dawn, I'll hand ye a handfu' o' Jacobuses."
'"I'll hand ye," replied Claverhouse, wi' a smile on his bonny, sad face,
"Ye'll tak the high road an' I'll tak the low road,
An' I'll be in North Tyne afore ye.
So up an' tak wing, my grey-lag goose," he says, "an' wing your way straight to the North Tyne water."
'"Then here's a last toast," cries Lag, holdin' up his bicker fu' o' wine.
'Noo, what think ye was his toast?' my companion broke off to inquire of me with eye agleam.
I shook my head, and laid hold of my saddle to remount, for the eerie communication, the loneliness of the spot, and the isolation of the drifting snowflakes had all combined to give me a 'scunner.'
'It was their ain damnation,' my companion whispered in my ear; 'he was proposin' the murder o' the Saints o' God—juist the "sin against the Holy Ghaist"—that was his fearsome health.'
I had climbed into my saddle, and at that moment an unseen plover wailed through the mist.
'Hark!' cried my companion, lifting a finger.