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’ ‘t is 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 like a lantern’s shine on a windy nicht and then disappeared. And I woke yelling like a pig at a killing, fair wud wi’ terror, and my skellochs made the rocks ring. I found mysel in the pool a’ but yae airm—the broken yin—which had hankit in a crack o’ rock. Nae wonder I had been dreaming o’ deep waters among the torments o’ the Ill Place, when I was in them mysel. The pain in my airm was sae fearsome and my heid was gaun round sae wi’ horror that I just skirled on and on, shrieking and groaning wi’oot a thocht what I was daein’. I was as near death as ever I will be, and as for Mr. Airthur he was on the very nick o’ ‘t, for by this time he was a’ in the water, though I still kept a grip o’ him.
“When I think ower it often I wonder how it was possible that I could be here the day. But the Lord’s very gracious, and he works in a queer way. For it so happened that Ebie Blackstock, whae had left Gledsmuir an hour afore me and whom I thocht by this time to be snorin’ in his bed at the Head o’ the Hope, had gone intil the herd’s house at the Waterfit, and had got sae muckle drink there that he was sweered to start for hame till aboot half-past twal i’ the night. Weel, he was comin’ up the burnside, gae happy and contentit, for he had nae wife at hame to speir about his ongaeings, when, as he’s telled me himsel, he heard sic an uproar doon by the Black Linn that made him turn pale and think that the Deil, whom he had long served, had gotten him at last. But he was a brave man, was Ebie, and he thinks to himsel that some fellow-creature micht be perishin’. So he gangs forrit wi’ a’ his pith, trying to think on the Lord’s Prayer and last Sabbath’s sermon. And, lookin’ ower the edge, he saw naething for a while, naething but the black water wi’ the awfu’ yells coming out o’ ‘t. Then he made out something like a heid near the side. So he rins doon by the road, no ower the rocks as I had come, but round by the burnside road, and soon he gets to the pool, where the crying was getting aye fainter and fainter. And then he saw me. And he grips me by the collar, for he was a sensible man, was Ebie, and hauls me oot. If he hadna been geyan strong he couldna hae dune it, for I was a deid wecht, forbye having a heavy man hanging on to me. When he got me up, what was his astonishment to find anither man at the end o’ my airm, a man like a corp a’ bloody about the heid. So he got us baith out, and we wae baith senseless; and he laid us in a safe bit back frae the water, and syne gaed off for help. So bye and bye we were baith got hame, me to my house and Mr. Airthur up to the Lodge.”
“And was that the end of it?” I asked.
“Na,” said the shepherd. “I lay for twae month there raving wi’ brain fever, and when I cam to my senses I was as weak as a bairn. It was many months ere I was mysel again, and my left airm to this day is stiff and no muckle to lippen to. But Mr. Airthur was far waur, for the dad he had gotten on the rock was thocht to have broken his skull, and he lay long atween life and death. And the warst thing was that his faither was sae vexed about him that he never got ower the shock, but dee’d afore Airthur was out o’ bed. And so when he cam out again he was My Lord, and a monstrously rich man.”
The shepherd puffed meditatively at his pipe for a few minutes.
“But that’s no a’ yet. For Mr. Airthur wad tak nae refusal but that I maun gang awa’ doon wi’ him to his braw house in England and be a land o’ factor or steward or something like that. And I had a rale fine cottage a’ to mysel, wi’ a very bonny gairden and guid wages,
