“From the Long Island … or from Uist … or maybe from Benbecula?”
“No.”
“Oh well, sure it is no matter to me. But may I be asking your name?”
“Macallum.”
“Do you know there is a death here, Macallum?”
“If I didn’t, I would know it now, because of what lies yonder.”
Mechanically Andrew Blair looked round. As he knew, a rough bier was there, that was made of a dead-board laid upon three milking-stools. Beside it was a claar, a small tub to hold potatoes. On the bier was a corpse, covered with a canvas sheeting that looked like a sail.
“He was a worthy man, my father,” began the son of the dead man, slowly; “but he had his faults, like all of us. I might even be saying that he had his sins, to the Stones be it said. You will be knowing, Macallum, what is thought among the folk … that a stranger, passing by, may take away the sins of the dead, and that, too, without any hurt whatever … any hurt whatever.”
“Ay, sure.”