"And who may ye be?" said Heriotside, growing eerie.
"Just an auld packman," said he—"nae name ye wad ken, but kin to mony gentle houses."
"And what about Ailie, you that ken sae muckle?" asked the young man.
"Naething," was the answer—"naething that concerns you, for ye'll never get the lass."
"By God, and I will!" says Heriotside, for he was a profane swearer.
"That's the wrong name to seek her in, any way," said the man.
At this the young laird struck a great blow at him with his stick, but found nothing to resist him but the hill-wind.
When they had gone on a bit the dark man spoke again. "The lassie is thirled to holy things," says he. "She has nae care for flesh and blood, only for devout contemplation."
"She loves me," says Heriotside.