One of the sergeants blew his horn thrice, and then made the proclamation, and “fenced the court” (as the phrase was) against all disturbance, which was denounced under high pains and penalties. The contending parties, mostly dismounted, were arranged on either side of the Arbiter, who elected to hear Altoncroft’s evidence first. Altoncroft, like his opponent, had no documents of any kind to produce—his charters and sasines having long become non-existent, so that his case depended entirely upon what lawyers call parole proof. The monk, now on foot, and holding open his book, which was an old manuscript copy of the Gospels and richly illuminated, advanced to discharge the duty of administering the usual oath to the witnesses. This he did with all solemnity. Each man, when called in rotation, swore, with his right hand laid upon the sacred volume, and afterwards partook of a morsel of bread, and pronounced the imprecation that if he told an untruth the morsel might become mortal poison—a form probably borrowed from the Hebrew judicial procedure with the “water of jealousy.”
The bulk of Altoncroft’s proof, as expiscated chiefly by questions from the Sheriff, amounted somewhat to this—that the Laird’s predecessors seemed to have always regarded the disputed ground, embracing a wide portion of the moorland on one side of the Deadman’s Holm, as their own property, the burn being, to a considerable extent, the line of march. There were flaws in the witness-bearing, and much of it did not hang well together, as being inconclusive and sometimes contradictory hearsay. But Ballinshaw appeared to consider the proof as possessing a good deal of weight. When it came to his turn to adduce his witnesses, he whispered to Johnston, who was to be the first sworn—“Now comes the pinch, Edie; and for Gudesake dinna fail me! Thae Altoncroft rogues ha’e said ower muckle, and we maun damnify them, else we’re lost. Dinna you mind the bit aith; it’s just mere wind out o’ your mouth. Ne’er scruple, lad, in your master’s service. A fu’ purse aye heals a troubled conscience. Stand up stoutly for my richt, and ding them a’ doon. The lave o’ our men will follow you like a wheen sheep louping a dyke.”
“I daurna do mair than I ha’e promised, Laird, though it were for my ain faither,” responded Edie, shaking his head. “But trust me, what I promised, and what I’ll swear in the face o’ the sun, will bear you out. Tak’ nae fear.”
The Sergeant’s horn sounding again, Edie, assuming the firmest demeanour he could, laid down his spear, and presented himself for examination. He took the oath and the ordeal with becoming gravity, and then proceeded to depone how it consisted with his belief that the ground in question belonged to Ballinshaw. Edie swore that he had frequently heard his father, grandfather, and other discreet men, who knew the locality, say so: that this was the common understanding of the country: that he himself had often seen Ballinshaw hunt over the said portion of moorland. “And to make siccar,” added he, “if your lordship will please to walk ower the ground alang wi’ me, I will point out the true marches as they were aye considered.”
This was the most matter-of-fact proposal which had been as yet offered, and it was readily accepted. Edie took his way, accompanied by nearly the whole of the assemblage. He made a wide circuit, inclining sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left. “The auld march rins this way, according to what I’ve heard, and according to what I ken,” he repeatedly deponed. “I’m walking here on the land o’ Ballinshaw. I swear, on soul and conscience, that the yird aneath my feet is Ballinshaw’s sure and certain.”
In this way he traversed a large space of the moorland, greatly to the satisfaction of his master, whose cunning eyes sparkled with joy. But the fiery Laird of Altoncroft, unable to control his chagrin longer, suddenly confronted the witness and bade him halt. The undaunted Johnston obeyed, folding his arms, and giving his interrupter a sarcastic scowl.
“Do you, sirrah, dare to swear that what you are pointing out are the true boundaries of my lands?” demanded Altoncroft.
“What cause is there to doubt his word?” cried Ballinshaw, pressing to the support of his hopeful witness. “Let the worthy Shirra judge.”
“I tell you, Altoncroft,” said the witness, drawing himself up to his full height; “I tell you, as I ha’e sworn, that all alang the yird o’ Ballinshaw’s land has been aneath my feet. Will that content you?”
“Mis-sworn villain!” ejaculated Altoncroft, furiously.