"Yes, Ancient."
"You'm mazed, Peter—ah! mazed ye be! What, aren't I heerd un moanin' an' groanin' to 'isself—ah! an' twitterin' to?"
"As to that," said I, "those shrieks and howls he made with his bagpipe, very easy for a skilled player such as he."
Some one was drawing water from a well across the road, for I heard the rattle of the bucket, and the creak of the winch, in the pause which now ensued, during which the Ancient, propped upon his stick, surveyed me with an expression that was not exactly anger, nor contempt, nor sorrow, and yet something of all three. At length he sighed, and shook his head at me mournfully.
"Peter," said he, "Peter, I didn't think as you'd try to tak' 'vantage of a old man wi' a tale the like o' that such a very, very old man, Peter—such a old, old man!"
"But I assure you, it's the truth," said I earnestly.
"Peter, I seen Scotchmen afore now," said he, with a reproachful look, "ah! that I 'ave, many's the time, an' Scotchmen don't go about wi' tails, nor yet wi' 'orns on their 'eads—leastways I've never seen one as did. An', Peter, I know what a bagpipe is; I've heerd 'em often an' often—squeak they do, yes, but a squeak bean't a scream, Peter, nor yet a groan—no." Having delivered himself of which, the Ancient shook his head at me again, and, turning his back, hobbled away.
When I turned to look at George, it was to find him regarding me with a very strange expression.
"Sir," said he ponderously, "did you sleep in th' 'aunted cottage last night?"
"Yes, though, as I have tried to explain, and unsuccessfully it seems, it is haunted by nothing more alarming than a Scots Piper."