met the gauger at the door, and dropping a curtsy, gave him a hearty welcome, while Somhairle Dubh told Eachainn to lead the pony to the stable; but seeing the poor lad hardly able to stand, and having been told the reason, he immediately helped him into the kitchen, and seating him by the fire, called for the whisky bottle—the usual panacea in those days for all evils in the Highlands—and giving Eachainn a good dram, he applied the same remedy to the wounded limb, rubbing it in before the fire, while a messenger was dispatched for his mother, who was noted for her skill in the use of herbs.
In the meantime Mr Gillespie had been shown to his bedroom, to change his wet clothes, while his dinner was preparing. Before he began his meal, the landlord brought out his own peculiar bottle—a mixture of whisky, camomile flowers, and coriander seeds—and offered his guest a glass as an appetiser, which was gladly accepted, for he was feeling far from well. He ate but little of the good plain dinner provided for him, and soon after went to his bed. Before doing so, however, he asked for Eachainn, wishing to give him a trifle for his guidance, but on being told that the lad had gone home with his mother, he gave Somhairle Dubh a shilling to give to him.
Although Gillespie was very tired, he could not sleep. He tossed and turned, and only as the day was breaking did he fall asleep, but it did not refresh him, for the incidents of his journey haunted him in his sleep. He was again riding the pony, going at a furious rate, while Eachainn sat at his back holding him in a grasp of iron. There arose before him the figure of a snake of gigantic proportions, which, writhing round his neck, was nearly strangling him, but instead of hissing, it uttered the ‘craik,’ ‘craik,’ of the trian-ri-trian. With an effort he awoke, and found himself stiff and feverish, and his throat very sore. In a word, the honest man was in for a bad attack of quinsey or inflammation of the throat. After a few days had elapsed, he expressed his surprise that Eachainn had not called to inquire for him; but he was told the lad had gone to a village ten miles off to spend his shilling. Somhairle Dubh and his goodwife became very concerned about their guest, and nothing could exceed their kindness and attention to him. They sent for the doctor, but he was away some distance and could not come at once. On the fourth day of Gillespie’s illness, Somhairle Dubh, seating himself by the sick man, with great solemnity of manner, said, ‘Sir, we must all die. Now, sir, I am come to do to you as I would like to be done by; for sore, sore would it be to me to think that my body should not be put in the grave of my fathers in Kilmuir. So, sir, by your leave, where would you choose to be buried?’
‘Buried!’ exclaimed the gauger, aghast, sitting up in his bed, and staring at his host. ‘Buried! surely I am not so bad as that?’
Without noticing his emotion, the worthy man continued, ‘Folk have different ways in different countries; but you may depend upon it, sir, it’s no my father’s son that would suffer the corpse of a duine-uasal not to be treated in every way most honourably. You shall be properly washed and stretched, that you may be sure of; and you shall not want for the dead shirt, for by my faith, and I’ll do as I promise, sir, you shall have my own dead shirt, that my wife made with her own hands, of real good linen, and beautifully sewed too. And we’ll keep you, sir, for seven days and seven nights, and I’ll get Ian Saor to make as good a chest for you as ever he made, with brass-headed nails all round it, and with shining handles like silver, and you shall lie in your chest like a duine-uasal should, with two large candles at your head, and two at your feet, and a plateful of salt on your breast.’
Here poor Gillespie could contain himself no longer, but groaned aloud at this dismal recital of what was to be done to his corpse.
‘What, sir? you’re may be thinking the alaire, or death feast, will not be good enough; but ye need not trouble yourself for that, there shall be plenty whisky and plenty meat, and my wife shall make good bannocks.’
‘Yes, indeed, I will,’ said the good woman, wiping her eyes with her apron as she sobbed out. ‘Ochan, ochan! little does his mother know how her son is the night.’
‘But,’ continued her husband, ‘think what a comfort it’ll be to her to hear of his being buried so decent like; for, sir, you shall be put in my own grandfather’s grave, and that’s what I’d not do to many, but I’ll do it to you, for though you are a gauger you’re a stranger far from your own people, and I’d like to show kindness to you.’
Indeed the worthy man never doubted but he had afforded Gillespie the greatest comfort in thus having settled all the particulars of his funeral; for an intense anxiety about the proper disposal of his remains, and the complete fulfilling of all the customary ceremonies of death, is a characteristic trait of the Highlander.