“Oh, I canna last for aye,” he said mournfully. “My auld body’s about dune. I’ve warkit it ower sair when I had it, and it’s gaun to fail on my hands. Sleepin’ out o’ wat nichts and gangin’ lang wantin’ meat are no the best ways for a long life”; and he smiled the ghost of a smile.
And then he fell to wild telling of the ruin of the place and the hardness of the people, and I saw that want and bare living had gone far to loosen his wits. I knew the countryside, and I recognised that change was only in his mind. And a great pity seized me for this lonely figure toiling on in the bitterness of regret. I tried to comfort him, but my words were useless, for he took no heed of me; with bent head and faltering step he mumbled his sorrows to himself.
Then of a sudden we came to the crest of the ridge where the road dips from the hilltop to the sheltered valley. Sheer from the heather ran the white streak till it lost itself among the reddening rowans and the yellow birks of the wood. The land was rich in autumn colour, and the shining waters dipped and fell through a pageant of russet and gold. And all around hills huddled in silent spaces, long brown moors crowned with cairns, or steep fortresses of rock and shingle rising to foreheads of steel-like grey. The autumn blue faded in the far skyline to white, and lent distance to the farther peaks. The hush of the wilderness, which is far different from the hush of death, brooded over the scene, and like faint music came the sound of a distant scytheswing, and the tinkling whisper which is the flow of a hundred streams.
I am an old connoisseur in the beauties of the uplands, but I held my breath at the sight. And when I glanced at my companion, he, too, had raised his head, and stood with wide nostrils and gleaming eye revelling in this glimpse of Arcady. Then he found his voice, and the weakness and craziness seemed for one moment to leave him.
“It’s my ain land,” he cried, “and I’ll never leave it. D’ye see yon broun hill wi’ the lang cairn?” and he gripped my arm fiercely and directed my gaze. “Yon’s my bit. I howkit it richt on the verra tap, and ilka year I gang there to make it neat and ordlerly. I’ve trystit wi’ fower men in different pairishes that whenever they hear o’ my death, they’ll cairry me up yonder and bury me there. And then I’ll never leave it, but be still and quiet to the warld’s end. I’ll aye hae the sound o’ water in my ear, for there’s five burns tak’ their rise on that hillside, and on a’ airts the glens gang doun to the Gled and the Aller.”
Then his spirit failed him, his voice sank, and he was almost the feeble gangrel once more. But not yet, for again his eye swept the ring of hills, and he muttered to himself names which I knew for streams, lingeringly, lovingly, as of old affections. “Aller and Gled and Callowa,” he crooned, “braw names, and Clachlands and Cauldshaw and the Lanely Water. And I maunna forget the Stark and the Lin and the bonny streams o’ the Creran. And what mair? I canna mind a’ the burns, the Howe and the Hollies and the Fawn and the links o’ the Manor. What says the Psalmist about them?
“As streams of water in the South,
Our bondage, Lord, recall.”
Ay, but yon’s the name for them. ‘Streams o’ water in the South.’ ”
And as we went down the slopes to the darkening vale I heard him crooning to himself in a high, quavering voice the single distich; then in a little his weariness took him again, and he plodded on with no thought save for his sorrows.
IV
The conclusion of this tale belongs not to me, but to the shepherd of the Redswirehead, and I heard it from him in his dwelling, as I stayed the night, belated on the darkening moors. He told me it after supper in a flood of misty Doric, and his voice grew rough at times, and he poked viciously at the dying peat.
“In the last back-end I was at Gledfoot wi’ sheep, and a weary job I had and little credit. Ye ken the place, a lang dreich shore wi’ the wind swirlin’ and bitin’ to the bane, and the broun Gled water choked wi’ Solloway sand. There was nae room in ony inn in the town, so I bude to gang to a bit public on the Harbour Walk, where sailor-folk and fishermen feucht and drank, and nae dacent men frae the hills thocht of gangin’. I was in a gey ill way, for I had sell’t my beasts dooms cheap, and I thocht o’ the lang miles hame in the wintry weather. So after a bite o’ meat I gangs out to get the air and clear my heid, which was a’ rammled wi’ the auction-ring.
“And whae did I find, sittin’ on a bench at the door, but the auld man Yeddie. He was waur changed than ever. His lang hair was hingin’ over his broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist’s. His claes fell loose about him, and he sat wi’ his hand on his auld stick and his chin on his hand, hearin’ nocht and glowerin’ afore him. He never saw nor kenned me till I shook him by the shoulders, and cried him by his name.
“ ‘Whae are ye?’ says he, in a thin voice that gaed to my hert.
“ ‘Ye ken me fine, ye auld fule,’ says I. ‘I’m Jock Rorison o’ the Redswirehead, whaur ye’ve stoppit often.’
“ ‘Redswirehead,’ he says, like a man in a dream. ‘Redswirehead! That’s at the tap o’ the Clachlands
