gave way, and to the farmer’s astonished gaze an expanse of white shirt-front was displayed. For a second he relaxed his hold, while the other freed himself and leaped back to recover breath.
Slowly it dawned upon the farmer’s intelligence that this was no cattle- dealer with whom he contended. Cattle-dealers do not habitually wear evening clothes when they have any work of guile on hand. And then gradually the flushed features before him awoke recognition. The next moment he could have sunk beneath the ground with confusion, for in this nightly marauder who had turned his sheep he saw no other than the figure of his master, the laird of all the countryside.
For a little the power of speech was denied him, and he stared blankly and shamefacedly while the Earl recovered his scattered wits. Then he murmured hoarsely,—
“I hope your lordship will forgi’e me. I never thocht it was yoursel’, for I wad dae onything rather than lift up my hand against ye. I thocht it was an ill- daein’ dealer frae east the country, whae has cheated me often, and I was vexed at his turnin’ the sheep, seein’ that I’ve had a lang day’s wander.” Then he stopped, for he was a man of few words and he could go no further in apology.
Then the Earl, who had entered into the fight in a haphazard spirit, without troubling to enquire its cause, put the fitting end to the strained relations. He was convulsed with laughter, deep and overpowering. Little by little the farmer’s grieved face relaxed, and he joined in the mirth, till these two made the silent place echo with unwonted sounds.
To them thus engaged entered a company of four, Miss Phyllis, the Sentimentalist, the shepherd, and the tailor. Six astonished human beings stood exchanging scrutinies under the soft moon. With the tailor the mood was still terror, with the shepherd careless amazement, and with the other two unquenchable mirth. For the one recognised the irate, and now apologetic, farmer of the Lowe Moss and the straggling sheep which told a tale to the observant > while both saw in the other of the dishevelled and ruddy combatants the once respectable form of a friend.
Then spoke the farmer:—
“What’s ta’en a’ the folk? This knowe’s like a kirk skailin’. And, dod, there’s Jock Rorison. Is this your best road to the Redswirehead, Jock?”
But the shepherd and his friend were speechless for they had recognised the laird, and the whole matter was beyond their understanding.
“Now,” said Miss Phyllis, “here’s a merry meeting. I have seen more wonders to-night than I can quite comprehend. First, there comes Mr. Grey from nowhere in particular with a plaid on his shoulders; then a man with a scared face tumbles at our feet; then another comes to look for him; and now here you are, and you seem to have been righting. These hills of yours are worse than any fairyland, and, do you know, they are rather exhausting.”
Meantime the Earl was solemnly mopping his brow and smiling on the assembly. “By George,” he muttered, and then his breath failed him and he could only chuckle. He looked at the tailor, and the sight of that care-ridden face again choked him with laughter.
“I think we have all come across too many spirits to-night,” he said, “and they have been of rather substantial flesh and bone. At least so I found it. Have you learned much about the future, Miss Phyllis?”
The girl looked shyly at her side. “Mr. Grey has been trying to teach me,” said she.
The Earl laughed with great good-nature. “Midsummer madness,” he said. “The moon has touched us all.” And he glanced respectfully upward, where the White Huntress urged her course over the steeps of heaven.
THE END
THE MOON ENDURETH: TALES
FROM THE PENTLANDS LOOKING NORTH AND SOUTH
Around my feet the clouds are drawn
In the cold mystery of the dawn;
No breezes cheer, no guests intrude
My mossy, mist-clad solitude;
When sudden down the steeps of sky
Flames a long, lightening wind. On high
The steel-blue arch shines clear, and far,
In the low lands where cattle are,
Towns smoke. And swift, a haze, a gleam,—
The Firth lies like a frozen stream,
Reddening with morn. Tall spires of ships,
Like thorns about the harbour's lips,
Now shake faint canvas, now, asleep,
Their salt, uneasy slumbers keep;
While golden-grey, o'er kirk and wall,
Day wakes in the ancient capital.
Before me lie the lists of strife,
The caravanserai of life,
Whence from the gates the merchants go
On the world's highways; to and fro
Sail laiden ships; and in the street
The lone foot-traveller shakes his feet,
And in some corner by the fire
Tells the old tale of heart's desire.
Thither from alien seas and skies
Comes
