And wondrous fierce and beautiful she was as I left her.
We made our way back by the drove road, Ronny McKinnon and me, and we were silent for the most part, for there was that in my throat to keep me from speaking, for Dan was gone, and no rowing would get him back, and who could get word to him.
There was the whiteness and stillness of snow over everything, and I mind me how my mind would cling to wee things, like the footprints of rabbits, and the wee bits of grey fur here and there, and the flight of cushies in the trees, to come back with a start to the Gull away out in the Firth, and Dan on board of her.
Silently we ate our bannocks at a little burn under some stunted trees and close to the shore, and wearily trailed on; and just at the darkness I made out the lights of the big house, and came into the kitchen, where Ronald McKinnon had a meal. He took away over the hill for his mother's house then, as he said, but I'm thinking maybe Mirren Stuart would have another way of it, and at his going I went to that grim man, the Laird.
He was with his back to a red fire of peats, and looked dourly at me.
"What new devilry is this?" says he, and bit his lip. "Here are women and men gane gyte wi' the tellin' o' death and murder—and where is Dan McBride?"
"There is nae murder that I ken," said I, "and the hogs are doing finely."
I believe the man had clean forgot about the sheep.
"Hogs," quo' he; "deil tak' the braxy beasts. Sir, where is Dan
McBride?" and at that I told him.
"And there's more yet," said I, for I had passed my word. "There's more to tell yet."