I was sore amazed at our welcome, for it was not near New Year, and I wondered if the scad of light on the snow, shining on us, had taken the old woman back to her younger days, but Dan took me out of my amazement.
"Humour her, Hamish; humour the weemen. A new face is New Year to Auld
Kate that keeps house tae McDearg."
"Och, it's the lassies will be the pleased ones, coiling the blankets round them; it's Auld Kate that kens," and then she gave a screitchy hooch and began to sing in her cracked thin voice—
'The man's no' born and he never will be,
The man's no born that will daunton me.'
It's that I used to be singing to your grandfather, Dan, when I was at my service in Nourn. He had a terrible grip, your grandfather, and the devil was in him; but he's deid, they're a' deid but Auld Kate. But we'll have a dram, and you'll be seeing the Red Laird." And in a little I saw that there was more than old age the matter.
There came the noise of piping in that strange house, and we tramped along a stone-flagged passage, and entered a room looking to the sea, and there, before a great fire, was McDearg, an old man, with evil looking from his eyes. He sat in his great chair, his head on his breast, and his shepherd, with the pipes on his knee, sat listening.
"A brave night, a brave night, and the devil on the roof-tree, McBride. What seek ye o' the Red Laird? The Gull, say ye; the Preventives—to hell wi' the Preventives; there's a bonny cove at the Rhu Ban, lads; but ye're in good time to see the devil coming for Red Roland."
A terrible squall struck the house and moaned round the gables, and the lowes blew into the room.
"D'ye hear him, the laughing o' him, and his blackbirds spying all day—ay, the Ravens from the Red Rocks; but they have nae terrors for Roland McDearg."
A long time he was silent, and then slowly the words came—