“This time it was nae auld wumman but a muckle black-avised man that was standin’ in the water glowrin’ at me. I kenned him fine by the bandy-legs o’ him and the broken nose (whilk I did mysel), for Dan Kyle the poacher deid thae twae year. He was a man, as I remembered him weel, wi’ a great black beard and een that were stuck sae far in his heid that they looked like twae wull-cats keekin’ oot o’ a hole. He stands and just stares at me, and never speaks a word.
“ ‘What d’ye want?’ I yells, for by this time I had lost a’ grip o’ mysel. ‘Speak, man, and dinna stand there like a dummy.’
“ ‘I want naething,’ he says in a mournfu’ singsong voice; ‘I’m just thinkin’.’
“ ‘Whaur d’ye come frae?’ I asked, ‘and are ye keepin’ weel?’
“ ‘Weel,’ he says bitterly. ‘In this warld I was ill to my wife, and twa-three times I near killed a man, and I stole like a pyet, and I was never sober. How d’ye think I should be weel in the next?’
“I was sorry for the man. ‘D’ye ken I’m vexed for ye, Dan,’ says I; ‘I never likit ye when ye were here, but I’m wae to think ye’re sae ill off yonder.’
“ ‘I’m no alane,’ he says. ‘There’s Mistress Courhope o’ the Big House, she’s waur. Ye mind she was awfu’ fond o’ gum-flowers. Weel, she canna keep them Yonder, for they a’ melt wi’ the heat. She’s in an ill way about it, puir body.’ Then he broke off. ‘Whae’s that ye’ve got there? Is’t Airthur Morrant?’
“ ‘Ay, it’s Airthur Morrant,’ I said.
“ ‘His family’s weel kent doon bye,’ says he. ‘We’ve maist o’ his forbears, and we’re expectin’ the auld Lord every day. May be we’ll sune get the lad himsel.’
“ ‘That’s a damned lee,’ says I, for I was angry at the man’s presumption.
“Dan lookit at me sorrowfu’-like. ‘We’ll be gettin’ you tae, if ye swear that gate,’ says he, ‘and then ye’ll ken what it’s like.’
“Of a sudden I fell into a great fear. ‘Dinna say that, Dan,’ I cried; ‘I’m better than ye think. I’m a deacon, and’ll maybe sune be an elder, and I never swear except at my dowg.’
“ ‘Tak care, Gidden,’ said the face afore me. ‘Where I am, a’ things are taken into account.’
“ ‘Then they’ll hae a gey big account for you,’ says I. ‘What-like do they treat you, may be?’
“The man groaned.
“ ‘I’ll tell ye what they dae to ye doon there,’ he said. ‘They put ye intil a place a’ paved wi’ stanes and wi’ four square walls around. And there’s naething in ’t, nae grass, nae shadow. And abune you there’s a sky like brass. And sune ye get terrible hot and thirsty, and your tongue sticks to your mouth, and your eyes get blind wi’ lookin’ on the white stane. Then ye gang clean fey, and dad your heid on the ground and the walls to try and kill yoursel. But though ye dae’t till a’ eternity ye couldna feel pain. A’ that ye feel is just the awfu’ devourin’ thirst, and the heat and the weariness. And if ye lie doon the ground burns ye and ye’re fain to get up. And ye canna lean on the walls for the heat, and bye and bye when ye’re fair perished wi’ the thing, they tak ye out to try some ither ploy.’
“ ‘Nae mair,’ I cried, ‘nae mair, Dan!’
“But he went on malicious-like—
“ ‘Na, na, Gidden, I’m no dune yet. Syne they tak you to a fine room but awfu’ warm. And there’s a big fire in the grate and thick woollen rugs on the floor. And in the corner there’s a braw feather bed. And they lay ye down on’t, and then they pile on the tap o’ ye mattresses and blankets and sacks and great rolls o’ woollen stuff miles wide. And then ye see what they’re after, tryin’ to suffocate ye as they dae to folk that a mad dowg has bitten. And ye try to kick them off, but they’re ower heavy, and ye canna move your feet nor your airms nor gee your heid. Then ye gang clean gyte and skirl to yoursel, but your voice is choked and naebody is near. And the warst o’ ’tis that ye canna die and get it ower. It’s like death a hundred times and yet ye’re aye leevin’. Bye and bye when they think ye’ve got eneuch they tak you out and put ye somewhere else.’
“ ‘Oh,’ I cries, ‘stop, man, or you’ll ding me silly.’
“But he says never a word, just glowrin’ at me.
“ ‘Aye, Gidden, and waur than that. For they put ye in a great loch wi’ big waves just like the sea at the Pier o’ Leith. And there’s nae chance o’ soomin’, for as sune as ye put out your airms a billow gulfs ye down. Then ye swallow water and your heid dozes round and ye’re chokin’. But ye canna die, ye must just thole. And down ye gang, down, down, in the cruel deep, till your heid’s like to burst and your een are fu’ o’ bluid. And there’s a’ kind o’ fearfu’ monsters about, muckle slimy things wi’ blind een and white scales, that claw at ye wi’ claws just like the paws o’ a drooned dog. And ye canna get away though ye fecht and fleech, and bye and bye ye’re fair mad wi’ horror and choking and the feel o’ thae awfu’ things. Then—’
“But now I think something snapped in my heid, and I went daft in doonricht earnest. The man before me danced about
