The Three Perils of Man; or, War, Women, and Witchcraft, Vol. 2 (of 3)

The friar having volunteered a tale, the priority was unanimously awarded to him: So, after the watches were set and all quiet, he began the following singular narrative, without further ceremony:

The Friar's Tale.

CHAPTER I.

1. In the days of the years of my pilgrimage, it chanced to me that I sojourned in the great kingdom that is toward the south.

2. And I passed through the city that lieth on the river of the hills, unto the house of Galli the scribe, who was a good man and a just.

3. And he had one only daughter, who was unto him as a treasure and an heritage, for her mother had been led unto her people before the maid could distinguish between her right hand and her left.

4. And the maiden was fair to look upon;

5. For her neck was as polished ivory, and her chin like the ripened peach basking on a wall that looketh toward the south.

6. Her lips also were like the honey-comb; her teeth were rows of pearl, and her breath was as sweet smelling incense, and myrrh, and cassia.

7. Her eyes were brighter than the dew of heaven, and her hair was like the beams of the moon streaming through the white clouds that are in the firmament of air.

8. And I loved the maiden exceedingly; and my heart burned within me; and I became as a dead man.

9. And I wist not what to do, or what would become of me; for the vows of the Lord were on me that I could not wed; and I said, Woe is me, for I am undone!

10. And I went in unto her, and communed with her of my great love; and when she had hearkened to my voice, she laughed me to scorn.

11. And I said, Why dost thou laugh me to scorn? Knowest thou not that I would lay down my life for thee? For I love thee so much above all things that are on the earth, that I would even lick the dust from off thy feet.

12. And she said, What wouldst thou have me to do?

13. And I looked on my right hand, and on my left, and I communed with my heart.

14. And I perceived that the maid had asked aright, for I knew not what I would have her to do; and lo my countenance became abashed.

15. And she laughed at me exceedingly; yea she laughed at my calamity till the tears streamed from her eyes.

16. I said therefore unto myself that I would die, and be gathered unto my fathers; for how could I live to be a scorn and a derision, and to be burnt up as with a devouring flame? and I had many thoughts of unrighteousness dwelling in me.

17. And she told her father of these matters; and Galli the scribe was wroth with me, and said unto me, Why wouldst thou betray my daughter, the child of my age, and the hope of my grey hairs?

18. Is it not better for thee to depart unto thine own country, and to thy kindred, than commit this great wickedness?

19. And my spirit was grieved within me; nevertheless I could not depart, for my heart clove to the maid, and I loved her as my own soul.

CHAPTER II.

1. And it came to pass that the army of the prince of the land encamped in that place;

2. For he was a great prince, and had increased his army; and he had captains over hundreds, and captains over fifties, and captains over tens.

3. And these were clothed in gorgeous apparel, in brocade of gold, and in brocade of silver; and they were vain men, for they had the plumage of birds upon their heads, and gems of silver, and of gold, and of precious stones, on their breasts; and swords girded on their thighs.

4. And the damsel beheld them, and her heart danced with joy; yea, her eyes followed them whithersoever they went.

5. And I was more grieved than ever; therefore I counselled her, and said all manner of evil of the men.

6. But she would not hearken to my reproof, but cast all my counsel behind her back; and she derided me.

7. And it came to pass, in the process of time, that one of the captains of fifty came to her, and spoke kind words unto her, even great swelling words of vanity.

8. And she hearkened unto him, and her ears drunk in his burning speeches, even as the ox drinketh in water; and she delighted therein; and he looked into her eye, and behold he saw his own image impressed in it, as in a glass.

9. And he looked into it many times, and it grew brighter; and every time that he looked into it he saw his own image the more deeply and strongly reflected, until he knew that he lived in her heart.

10. But her image was not in his eye.

11. And I knew this, and was grieved. Therefore I withstood him to his face, and rebuked him; yea, and I also cursed him.

12. But the captain of fifty mocked me; he also told the maid, and she became wroth with me, so that, the two being combined against me, I could do nothing but sit down and weep.

13. And she gave unto him all that she had; yea she gave him until she had no more to give, for she gave unto him herself.

14. And her countenance was changed; her bright eyes retained not their wonted brightness; her voice was broken, and her tongue faltered in her mouth.

15. But the captain of fifty regarded it not; for he left her and went his way, and he did eat and drink, and made himself merry with wine.

16. And he said, What is a maiden that I should regard her? or for what were the daughters of women formed but for my pleasure?

17. And the prince of the kingdoms of the land sent unto his army, that they should go into a far country to fight against the enemies of their lord the king. And the men purposed to go; and the captain of fifty purposed to go also.

18. And when the maiden heard of it her heart failed within her, and she fell sick, and I feared it would be to death.

19. And I tried to comfort her; and I watched with her day and night, and prayed many prayers for her; but she became worse, for her spirit was wounded and cast down.

20. And Galli the scribe was also sorely afflicted, and he mourned exceedingly, saying, Alas! what shall I do for my daughter! she who was the hope of my age, and my only comfort here below. Wo is me, for she is dying of a lingering disease, and I shall be left childless! Now Galli the scribe knew not what the captain of fifty had done unto her, nor of all that she had given unto him.

21. So I went forth unto the host to seek this betrayer of women, and to speak peaceably with him, and to reason with him.

22. But he knew me afar off, and said to his brethren, Lo, here cometh that man of a strange country, let us make him our sport.

23. And they combined against me, and treated me with great indignity; for they bound my hands and put me into the river, and the flood carried me away, so that I said in mine heart, lo, I shall be drowned, for there is not one to pity or save me.

24. But they took me forth before my breath departed clean away; and they stripped me naked, and tied me to a stake, and scourged me.

25. And afterwards they stoned me out of the camp.

26. And I was very wroth, and went unto the captain of the host, and made my complaint known unto him.

27. And I said, O my lord, hearken unto the voice of thy servant. Behold one of your captains of fifty came unto the house of Galli the scribe.

28. And the man intreated him kindly, yet hath he betrayed his daughter, and refuseth to do her justice; and the maid will die, and her father, who is a good man, will go down to the grave with her.

29. And he answered and said unto me, What have I to do with this matter, or with thee? As a maid treadeth the wine press, so let her drink. It is not meet that I should be troubled with these things.

30. And I went away and wept bitterly, for I could find neither consolation nor redress; and I saw that the wickedness of the men was very great.

31. Then I went and trimmed my beard, and borrowed me a suit of armour; and I put an helmet of steel upon mine head, and a breast-plate upon my breast, and I girded on a sword.

32. And I went forth and challenged the captain of fifty to fight with me.

33. And I said in mine heart, Lo, I will fight this wicked man, and overcome him. And I will take his sword from him, and rend his armour from off his loins.

34. And then will I compel him to do justice to those whom he hath wronged, else will I smite off his head.

35. And we met by the side of the river; and he discerned me not through my disguise, for he said unto me, Who art thou, or what have I to say to thee?

36. And I said, For the wrong that thou hast done to the house of Galli the scribe have I called thee out to battle.

37. And he said, Thou hast done well. I will chastise thee as thou deservest, that thou mayest learn how to lift up thy hand against the servants of our lord the king.

38. So we fought; and his hand was sore against me.

39. For he drove me out of my place, and wounded me, and my hope had nearly perished.

40. But I prayed to the Lord for strength. And we fought again; and the combat was very sore that day, and he prevailed not against me.

41. And after the combat had lasted until my breath was spent, and my arm weary, by the help of the Lord I wounded him in the loins, so that my sword found a passage through his body, and he fell.

42. And I was sore afraid; and fled away, and hid myself; for I trembled at the thing I had done, because I perceived that the last case was worse than the first.

43. And when the soldiers came to him, he said that Galli the scribe had sent out ruffians to slay him.

44. And when these things were told to the captain of the host, he was exceedingly wroth, and he sent forth men to destroy the house of Galli the scribe, and to slay him, and take his substance for a prey.

45. And the captain of fifty died that night; and they buried him with great lamentation, for they wept over him, saying, Alas! our brother! for he hath been cut off before his time.

CHAPTER III.

1. And it came to pass, that after I had laid aside my armour, and put on my pilgrim weeds, that I went forth into the plain, and into the city.

2. And when I heard the words of the captain of the host, and the command that he had given, I hasted to the house of Galli the scribe, and said unto him, Go to, put up all thy money, and thy jewels, and fly for thy life, for behold evil is determined concerning thee.

3. But he would not hearken to my voice; for he said, I have done no man wrong.

4. And I intreated him, but prevailed not.

5. Therefore I went unto his daughter, and told her of what I had heard; and I said, Rise up, make haste and escape, for the soldiers will abuse thee.

6. And she was afraid, and said unto me, Take me, and hide me for a short time, for thy words have never deceived me.

7. And I hid her in a palm tree, and remained with her.

8. And the men who belonged to the captain of fifty, even to him whom I slew in battle, came as they were commanded; and they entered into the possessions of Galli the scribe, and they took all that he had for a prey, and burned his house with fire.

9. And we beheld all from our hiding-place, and were greatly astonished; for we saw Galli the scribe flying through the garden, and the soldiers pursuing hard after him, with their swords drawn.

10. And when his daughter saw it she shrieked and fainted away; and when the men heard her voice they looked about, and some of them ran into the arbour, but they found her not, therefore they pursued after Galli the scribe.

11. And I trembled sore, for I knew not if we were discovered, neither could I support the maiden in her seat.

12. For she beheld whose men they were that pursued after her father to slay him, and she deemed that her captain of fifty had sent out his fifty to devour them, yea to destroy, and to slay, and to ravage; and there was no more spirit in her.

13. And I prayed to the Lord my God out from among the branches of the palm tree, and he heard my voice.

14. For the spoilers came, and they sought, but they found us not.

15. For their eyes were blinded that they could not see. We beheld their eyes, and heard the threatenings that proceeded out of their mouths, yet could they not perceive us.

16. And their threatenings were filled with the abominations of iniquity, for the men were very wicked.

17. And I took her out of the palm tree by night; and I covered her with my sack-cloth gown, and we tried to fly and make our escape, but she could not; therefore my distress was very great.

18. And I carried her to the house of a poor widow in the suburbs of the city, and I concealed her there till her strength should recover.

19. And I went about making many inquiries; and I heard that the soldiers had taken Galli the scribe, and had given him up to be persecuted, and tormented, and slain; also that the whole army were abroad searching to recover his daughter, to execute vengeance on her.

20. And I was grieved for that I had done, and for bringing evil on those I loved; for I knew that the men of the host spoiled the people, and did according to their will.

22. So I borrowed me a pilgrim's robes, and in these I equipped the maiden; and when she was clothed in her flowing sack-cloth gown, with her cross, scallop, and shell, behold I myself could not discern her.

22. And we escaped from the city by night, and journeyed toward the north, and at break of day we came to the fords of the great river, where we were encountered by three of the soldiers of the guard, who waylaid us.

23. And I said unto them, Whom seek ye? And they said, We be sent out to seek the daughter of Galli the scribe, for she hath betrayed one of the captains into her nets, and hath robbed him, and also caused him to be cut off from his men; therefore are we sent out to take her, that she may be delivered into the hands of his men, that they may do to her as seemeth good in their eyes.

24. And the maiden trembled, so that the men beheld it; and I turned and said unto her, Said I not that it was so?

25. And I said furthermore, Sit thee down, my brother, until we converse with these men, for they are good men, and filled with wisdom; and lo, have not I strange things to relate unto them?

26. And the men sat down, and we sat down beside them.

27. And I said, We are pilgrims and strangers, and come from a far country. And they said, Peace be unto you.

28. And I said, moreover, that it was given unto me to dream dreams, and to see visions, and that I had a vision of my head upon my bed, which was of this Galli the scribe of whom they spake.

29. For I saw and beheld that he had put forth his hand on a captain of the servants of my lord the king, and had sent forth his bravadoes, who had wounded him until the sword passed through him, even from the left side unto the right. And the men said, Is not this wonderful?

30. And behold I saw the servants of my lord the king enter the dwelling of the man, even of the scribe, and take his goods, and him they pursued with the edge of the sword, and took by the vineyard as thou goest down towards a river.

31. And they burned his house with fire, so that the flames ascended up on high; and his daughter who was sick, and concealed in an inner chamber, her also did they burn until she was quite consumed.

32. And the men wondered exceedingly; and they bowed down their heads and said, Thou hast told unto us strange things. It is even as thou hast said. Go on your way.

33. And I blessed them; and they returned to tell unto their captains the wonderful things which they had heard.

34. And I fled with the damsel until I came to the sea; and when we had found a ship we went into it, and I brought her to my own country, but not to my kindred, for I placed her in the holy isle near the river of the north.

35. And she mourned night and day for her father, and also for the captain of fifty, whom she called her husband; for she dreaded that some evil had befallen unto him.

36. For, on the day that he had sworn to her, he had given her a graven image, which she kept hid in her bosom, and she wept over it and kissed it.

37. And I was grieved, and rebuked her, but she refused to be comforted; and I went and came and brought her of the good things of the land, for I loved her as the breath of my nostrils.

38. And when the days of her months were fulfilled, behold she brought forth a daughter.

39. And the babe was also beautiful to look upon. And the bosom of the mother yearned over her child, and she called her by her father's name, even by the name of the captain of fifty.

40. And she kissed her child, and wept over it day and night; but the frame and substance of her body were wasted away with perpetual grief, and I saw that the child would die.

41. And, when I saw the countenance that was once beautiful as the morning bathed in tears, as her babe lay at a breast in which there was no nourishment, I was exceedingly sorry even unto death.

42. And lo, I took the child and nourished it; yea I fed it with bread and with wine, with butter also, and with honey and milk from the beasts of the field; and the child was restored.

43. But the mother decayed like a flower that is cut down; for the winds of grief had passed over her, and her spirit was consumed. The summer came, and all the herbs of the field were renewed, but the fairest flower of the land was bending down to meet the clay.

CHAPTER IV.

1. And it came also to pass that as soon as I found myself in a land of safety, I wrote many letters to Galli the scribe; for I said, Peradventure he may escape out of their hands.

2. I wrote also to the chief of our order, giving account of the whole matter, and attesting the innocence of Galli the scribe.

3. But no answer came to me, therefore was I sore distressed; for I said, If the mother and babe both perish, what shall become of me?

4. And one day as I sat with the babe on my knee, I beheld, and, lo, the eyes of the mother were fixed mournfully on her babe, and she lifted them to my face, and looked at her babe again.

5. And I could not contain myself; so I lifted up my voice and wept bitterly.

6. But she smiled, and said, Wherefore shouldst thou weep? Behold, am not I in the hand of the Lord? And my child, the daughter of my youth, and of my love, thou also art in the hands of thy Maker.

7. May he lead thee, and guide thee, and keep thee from the snares in which thy mother hath fallen.

8. Though thou hast lost thy father, as I also have lost mine, yet hast thou a Father in Heaven who will not forsake thee. Neither shalt thou altogether lack a father's care here below.

9. And she said to me, Is it not even so?

10. And I could not answer her, for I wept aloud; yea, I even wept until the child grew affrighted, and wept also.

11. And the mother took the graven image from her neck, and from her bosom; and she kissed it, and hung it round the neck of her babe.

12. And she said, It is the image and likeness of thy father, wear it, my child, till the day of thy death.

13. Peradventure thou mayest fall among his people, and among his kindred, for they were men of honour and renown.

14. And she kissed her child, and said, Now shall I be taken from thee, and go to my grave, and they will bury me, my babe, among strangers, and there is none of my people to shed a tear over me.

15. And we all wept abundantly, and shed many tears.

16. And while we yet cried aloud, lifting up our voices, behold one entered in, and said, Peace be with you!

17. And I discerned him not, for mine eyes flowed like two fountains of water.

18. But the woman cried out, and sprang from her couch, and she clasped her arms around his neck, and said, My father! my father!

19. And behold it was Galli the scribe.

20. And the woman said, Now hath my child found a father indeed.

21. And she said, Blessed and happy mayest thou be, my daughter, for I bring thee joyful tidings, and blessed be this man who hath befriended and saved thee. His intercession hath also saved the life of thy father; all that was mine hath been restored to me, yea, and more also.

22. And I will give all unto thee and to thy child after thee, and thou shalt have riches and honours in thy own country, and among thy own people.

23. But his daughter answered him not, for the words died on her tongue; but she looked in his face and smiled, and then she looked at her babe as it lay on my knee.

24. And Galli the scribe was sore amazed, and said, What aileth thee, my daughter? and why answerest thou not to the words of thy father?

25. And he held her in his arms, and her hands were clasped around his neck that they would not be loosed.

26. And behold there was a sound like a small voice issued from her mouth, and the light of her eyes became dim, and her head fell back over the arm of her father.

27. And her gentle spirit departed away unto him that gave it; for she spoke no more, neither breathed she any more.

28. And we buried her in the isle of the holy place, and mourned for her many days.

29. And I besought of Galli the scribe that he would leave the child with me, that I might bring her up in our convent, and breed her in the ways of purity and truth.

30. But he refused, and said, I cannot part with the child of my only daughter; she shall go with me and be the heiress of all that I possess.

31. And after I had blessed him, he departed with the little maid to go to his own land, and I saw them no more.

32. For after many years had elapsed, I went again into the country beyond the river, and I visited the house of Galli the scribe.

33. But behold he had never returned to that place; and the people of the land reported unto me, that he fell among thieves, and was slain, and the babe was slain with him, or led into captivity.

34. The ways of heaven are unsearchable, and the hand of man often worketh out its decrees. But for the misfortunes that befel the house of Galli the scribe will I go mourning till the day of my death.

CHAPTER VI.

"It has made my heart very sair that tale," said Charlie; "I wish you hadna tauld it."

"I think it is nae tale ata'," said Tam Craik: "If I coudna hae tauld a better tale than that, I wad never hae begun. I could now wager sax merks, and sax brass mowdiworts to boot, that the Gospel-friar is the man that shall be the first to thole the knife. And what for should he no? He'll make the best mart amang us."

"I differ widely from you," said the poet, "with regard to the merits of the tale. I love the friar for telling it; and I love him ten times better for the part he took in the transaction. How I do admire the love that has no selfish flaw, no moiety of sense to prompt its aberrations! Should I ever get free from this vile pinnacle,—this grave in altitude,—I'll search the world for that dear child, and find her too, if in the world she be."

"Alas! I have searched, and searched in vain," answered the friar. "It was so long before I knew of the mishap of my friend, and my darling child, that all memory of the transaction was lost. I would travel from sea to sea, and from the river to the ends of the earth, to find out that dear, that beloved maiden; and could I find her I would yet put her in possession of the inheritance of her father. For I have instructed the heads of our order, and they are preserving it in their own hands as the patrimony of the orphan and the father-less."

During the time of the friar's narrative, Delany had been sitting close by his knee in fixed and earnest attention; and at this time there chancing to be a pause in the conversation, she looked wistfully about, as if afraid she was going to commit herself by telling a lie. But there was such a beam of intelligence playing over her lovely countenance, that all the party fixed their eyes on her, as if watching with the deepest interest what she was going to say.

"I have a confused dream of having heard something of this story before," said she: "but subsequent events had quite obliterated the traces of it from my memory, till this narrative renewed them: I think I can give you some intelligence of this lost maiden. You said she was called by her father's name. Do you recollect what that father of her's was called?"

"Ay, that will I never forget while memory retains her seat in this repentant bosom," said the friar. "His name was Captain Jacques De-la-Veny."

"The very same," said the maid. "Then do you know ought of this? Or did you ever see it before?"—and she took a small miniature from her bosom, holding it near to the friar's eye.

"By the blessed stars of heaven, and the Holy Virgin that rules above them!" exclaimed the friar; "it is the graven image of the captain of fifty whom I slew in battle. I saw it placed in thy bosom, yea I held thee on my knee till that chain of gold was locked about thy neck never to be removed. Thou art indeed the daughter of the fairest and the comeliest among women,—of her whom I loved far above my own life, and for whom I travailled in pain; yea, thou art the child that I nursed and held on my knee, and all the inheritance of thy fathers is thine. Blessed be thou, my daughter! and blessed be they who have preserved thee! Come to my bosom my child, my beloved, my fair one, that I may fall on thy neck, and bless thee, and weep over thee; for my soul rejoiceth that I have found thee."

The poet could stand it no longer; he threw himself at the maiden's feet, and embraced them, and wept aloud. Charlie was busied in drawing pictures of swords and cross-bows on the floor with the brazen end of his sheathe, and always giving a loud sob as if his heart would burst. Even Master Michael Scott once drew the back of his hand across his eyes, though no one believed it was ought of sympathy that affected him.

"The abbreviation of the name was so natural in the mouths of the people of this land," said the friar, "that I wonder I should never have recognised it, nor yet on the face of my dear child the features of her mother. Hard has been thy lot, and the lot of thy fathers, but blessings may yet remain in store for thee."

"I dinna see where they're to come frae," said Charlie, sighing louder than ever. "It wad be the hardest thing I ever kend, if ane sae young, sae bonnie, and sae good, after a' that she has borne, should be prickit up atween the yird and the heaven here, to be hungered to dead, and then eaten wi' the corbies."

"Life's sweet to us a'," said Gibbie: "She wad be as little missed as ony that's here, if she should be starved to death wi' hunger."

"She shall not be starved to death wi' hunger;" cried Charlie, in a tone of valiant desperation. "Na, na; afore she die o' hunger after a' she has come through, I'll rather cut a limb off my ain body and feed her wi't. An Corbie be spared, I can e'en ride by the warden's side wi' a timmer ane."

"God bless you, for a kind heart," cried the poet.

"Gin I thought I were to win her mysel," said Tam, "and win away wi' life out o' this luckless place, I wad do a good deal for her; but if I trowed ony o' you were to get her frae me—I'll no tell you how I feel."

"Just as a hungry man should feel," said Gibbie; "and as ane wha has starvation afore his een maun feel. It is e'en a sair trial, and often brings me a-mind o' the story of Marion Gib's callant."

Master Michael Scott, thinking that, in right of seniority, the Laird was now about to begin his trial story for life or death, made a signal with his hand for his guests to compose themselves, which they did with one consent; while Gibbie, pleased with the mark of deference shown to him, went on:—

Laird of Peatstacknowe's Tale.

There wad aiblins nane o' you ken Marion. She lived i' the Dod-Shiel; and had a callant to the lang piper, him that Squire Ridley's man beat at the Peel-hill meeting. Weel, you see, he was a gilliegaupy of a callant, gayan like the dad o' him; for Marion said he wad hae eaten a horse ahint the saddle; and as her shieling wasna unco weel stored o' meat, she had ill getting him mainteened; till at the lang and the last it just came to this pass, that whenever Jock was i' the house, it was a constant battle atween Marion and him. Jock fought to be at meat, and Marion to keep him frae it, and mony hard clouts and claws there past. They wad hae foughten about a haggis, or a new kirning o' butter, for a hale hour, and the battle generally endit in Jock's getting a', or a good shareo' ilka thing. (I wish we had sic things here, even though we had to fight for them!) When he had fairly gained the possession, by whatever means, he feasted with the greatest satisfaction, licking his large ruddy lips, and looking all about him with eyes of the utmost benevolence. Marion railed all the while that the poor lad was enjoying himself, without any mercy and restraint, and there wasna a vile name under the sun that had ony signification of a glutton in it, that she didna ca' him by. Jock took the bite wi' the buffet;—he heard a' the ill names, and munched away. Oh, how his heart did rejoice o'er a fat lunch o' beef, a good haggis, or even a cog o' milk brose! Poor fellow! such things were his joy and delight. So he snapped them up, and in two or three hours after he was as ready for another battle as ever.

This was a terrible life to lead. Times grew aye the langer the waur; and Marion was obliged to hire poor Jock to Goodman Niddery, to herd his kye and his pet sheep. Jock had nae thoughts at a' o' ganging to sic a job at first; but Marion tauld him ilka day o' the fat beef, the huge kebbucks, and the parridge sae thick that a horn-spoon wadna delve into them, till he grew impatient for the term day. That day came at length, and Marion went away hame wi' her son to introduce him. The road was gayan lang, and Jock's crappin began to craw. He speered a hunder times about the meat at Goodman Niddery's house, and every answer that Marion gae was better than the last, till Jock believed he was gaun home to a continual feast. It was a delightful thought, for the craving appetite within him was come to a great height. They reached the place, and went into the kitchen. Jock's een were instantly on the look-out; but they didna need to range far. Above the fire there hung two sides of bacon more than three inches deep of fat, besides many other meaner objects: The hind legs of bullocks, sheep, and deer, were also there; but these were withered, black, and sapless in appearance. Jock thought the very substance was dried out o' them. But the bacon! How it did make Jock smack his lips! It was so juicy that even the brown bristly skin on the outside of it was all standing thick o' eenbright beaming drops like morning dew. Jock was established at Goodman Niddery's; he would not have flitted again and left these two sides of bacon hanging there for an estate. Marion perceived well where the sum of his desires was fixed, and trembled for fear of an instant attack: Well might she; for Jock had a large dirk or sheathed knife (a very useful weapon) that he wore, and that he took twice out of its place, looked at its edge, and then at the enormous bacon ham, which was more than three inches deep of solid fat, with the rich drops of juice standing upon the skin. Jock drew his knife on his sandal, then on the edge of a wooden table that stood beside him, examined the weapon's edge again, and again fixed his green eyes on the bacon. "What do the people mean," thought he to himself, "that they do not instantly slice down a portion of that glorious meat, and fry it on the coals? Would they but give me orders to do it,—would they even give me the least hint, how slashingly I would obey!"

None of them had the good sense to give Jock ony sic orders. He was two or three times on the very point of helping himself, and at last got up on his feet, it was believed, for the sole purpose of making an attack on the bacon ham, when, behold, in came Goodman Niddery.

"There's your master, sirrah!" whispered Marion, "haste ye and whup aff your bonnet."

Jock looked at him. There was something very severe and forbidding in his countenance; so Jock's courage failed him, and he even took aff his bonnet, and sat down with that in his one hand and the drawn knife in the other. Marion's heart was greatly relieved, and she now ventured on a little conversation:

"I hae brought you hame my lad, Goodman, and I hope he'll be a good servant to you."

"I coudna say, Marion: Gin he be as gude as you ca'ed him, he'll do. I think he looks like ane that winna be behind at his bicker."

"Ay, weel I wat, Goodman, and that's true; and I wadna wish it were otherwise. Slaw at the meat, slaw at the wark, ye ken."

"That is a good hint o' my mother's!" thinks Jock to himsel: "What though I should show the auld niggard a sample? The folk o' this house surely hae nae common sense."

The dinner was now, however, set down on the kitchen-table. The goodman sat at the head, the servants in a row on each side, and Jock and his mother at the foot. The goodwife stood behind her servants, and gave all their portions. The dinner that day consisted of broad bannocks, as hard as horn, a pail of thin sour milk, called whig, and a portion of a large kebbuck positively as dry as wood. Jock was exceedingly dissatisfied, and could not but admire the utter stupidity of the people, and their total want of all proper distinction. He thought it wonderful that rational creatures should not know what was good for them. He munched, and munched, and gnawed at the hard bread and cheese, till his jaws were sore; but he never once looked at the food before him; but leaning his cheek on his hand to rest his wearied grinders somewhat at every bite he took, and every splash of the sour shilpy milk that he lapped in, he lifted his eyes to the fat bacon ham with the juice standing on it in clear bells.

Marion wished herself fairly out of the house, for she perceived there would be an outbreak; and to prepare the good people for whatever might happen, she said before going away,—"Now, goodwife, my callant's banes are green, and he's a fast growing twig; I want to ken if he will get plenty o' meat here."

"I winna answer for that, Marion;—he shall fare as the lave fare; but he's may-be no very easily served. There are some misleared servants wha think they never get enough."

"Tell me this thing, then, goodwife; will he see enough?"

"Ay; I shall answer for that part o't."

"Then I shall answer for the rest, goodwife."

Jock had by this time given up contending with the timber cheese, and the blue sour milk, and, taking a lug of a bannock in his hand, the size of a shoe sole, he went away and sat down at the fire-side, where he had a full view of the bacon ham, three inches thick of fat, with the dew standing on its brown skin.

The withered bread swallowed rather the better of this delicious sight; so Jock chewed and looked, and looked and chewed, till his mother entered into the security mentioned. "That is a capital hint," thought Jock; "I shall verify my good mother's cautionry, for I can stand this nae langer." He sprang up on a seat, sliced off a large flitch of bacon, and had it on the coals before one had time to pronounce a word; and then turning his back to it, and his face to the company, he stood with his drawn dirk quite determined to defend his prey.

The goodwife spoke first up. "Gudeness have a care o' us! see to the menseless tike!" cried she; "I declare the creature has na the breeding o' a whalp!"

Jock was well used to such kind of epithets; so he bore this and some more with the utmost suavity, still, however, keeping his ground.

Goodman Niddery grinned, and his hands shook with anger, as if struck with a palsy; but for some reason or other he did not interfere. The servants were like to burst with laughter; and Jock kept the goodwife at bay with his drawn knife, till his slice was roasted; and then, laying it flat on his dry piece of bread, he walked out to the field to enjoy it more at leisure. Marion went away home; and the goodman and goodwife both determined to be revenged on Jock, and to make him pay dear for his audacity.

Jock gave several long looks after Marion as she vanished on Kettlemoor, but he had left no kind of meat in her shieling when he came away, else it was likely he would have followed his mother home again. He was still smacking his lips after his rich repast, and he had seen too much good stuff about the house of his new master to leave it at once; so he was even fain to bid Marion good-b'ye in his heart, wipe the filial tear from his eye, poor man, and try to reconcile himself to his new situation.

"Do you carry aye that lang gully knife about wi' you, master cow-herd, or how do they ca' ye?" said his master, when they next met after the adventure of the bacon.

"I hae aye carried it yet," said Jock, with great innocence; "and a gay gude whittle it is."

"Ye maun gie that up," said Niddery; "we dinna suffer chaps like you to carry sic weapons about our house."

Jock fixed his green eyes on his master's face. He could hardly believe him to be serious; still there was something in his look he did not like; so he put his knife deeper into his pocket, drew one step back, and, putting his under row of teeth in front of those above, waited the issue of such an unreasonable demand.

"Come, come; give it up I say. Give it to me; I'll dispose of it for you."

"I'll see you at the bottom o' the place my mother speaks about whiles," thought Jock to himself, afore I gi'e my gully either to you or ony that belangs to you." He still kept his former position, however, and the same kind of look at his master's face, only his een grew rather greener.

"Won't you give it up, you stubborn thief? Then I will take it, and give you a good drubbing into the bargain."

When Jock heard this, he pulled out his knife. "That is a good lad to do as you are bidden," said his master. But Jock, instead of delivering up his knife, drew it from the sheathe, which he returned to his pocket. "Now I sal only say this," said he; "the first man that tries to take my ain knife frae me—he may do it—but he shall get the length o't in his monyplies first." So saying, he drew back his hand with a sudden jerk.

Goodman Niddery gave such a start that he actually leaped off the ground, and holding up both his hands, exclaimed, "What a savage we have got here! what a satan!" And without speaking another word he ran away to the house, and left Jock standing with his drawn knife in his hand.

The goodman's stomach burned with revenge against Jock; so that night he sent him supperless to bed, out of requital for the affair of the fat bacon; and next day the poor boy was set down to a very scanty breakfast, which was not fair. His eye turning invariably to one delicious object, the goodman perceived well what was passing in his heart; and, on some pretence, first sent away all the servants and then the goodwife. He next rose up himself, with his staff in his hand, and, going slowly away into the little parlour, said, as he went through the kitchen, "What can be become o' a' the fo'k?" and with that entered the dark door that opened in a corner. He made as though he had shut the door, but he turned about within it and peeped back.

The moment that he vanished was the watch-word for Jock; he sprang from his seat at the bottom of the table, and, mounting a form, began to whang away at the bacon ham. Some invidious bone, or hard object of some sort, coming unfortunately in contact with the edge of his knife, his progress was greatly obstructed; and though he cut and sawed with all his might, before he succeeded in separating a piece of about two pounds weight from the main body, his master had rushed on him from his concealment, and, by one blow of his staff, laid him flat on the floor. The stroke was a sore one, for it was given with extreme good will, and deprived Jock of sensibility for the time being. He and his form both came down with a great rumble, but the knife remained buried in the fat bacon ham; and the inveterate goodman was not satisfied with felling the poor lad, but kicked him, and laid on him with his stick after he was down. The goodwife at length came running, and put a stop to this cruelty; and fearing the boy was murdered, and that they would be hanged for it, she got assistance, and soon brought Jock again to himself.

Jock had been accustomed to fight for his meat, and, in some measure laid his account with it, so that, on the whole, he took his broken head as little to heart as could have been expected,—certainly less than any other boy of the same age would have done. It was only a little more rough than he had been prepared to look for; but had he succeeded in his enterprise, he would not have been ill content. The goodwife and her maids had laid him on a kitchen bed and bathed his temples; and on recovering from stupefaction, the first thing he did was to examine his pockets to see if he had his gully. Alak! there was nothing but the empty sheathe. Then he did lose the field, and fell a blubbering and crying. The goodwife thought he was ill, and tried to sooth him by giving him some meat. He took the meat of course, but his heart was inconsolable; till, just when busy with his morsel, his eye chanced to travel to the old place as if by instinct, and there he beheld the haft of his valued knife sticking in the bacon ham, its blade being buried deep in sappy treasures. He sprang over the bed, and traversing the floor with staggering steps, mounted a form, and stretched forth his hand to possess himself again of his gully.

"Aih! Gudeness have a care o' us," cried the goodwife; "saw ever ony body the like o' that? The creature's bacon mad! Goodman! goodman, come here!"

Jock, however, extricated his knife and fled, though he could scarcely well walk. Some of the maids averred that he at the same time slid a corner of the ham into his pocket; but it is probable they belied him, for Jock had been munching in the bed but the moment before.

He then went out to his cows, weak as he was. He had six cows, some mischievous calves, and ten sheep to herd; and he determined to take good care of these, as also, now that he had got his knife again, not to want his share of the good things about the house, of which he saw there was abundance. However, several days came and went, and Jock was so closely watched by his master and mistress all the time he was in the house, that he could get nothing but his own scanty portion. What was more, Jock was obliged every day to drive his charge far a-field, and remain with them from morn till evening. He got a few porridge in the morning, and a hard bannock and a bottle of sour milk to carry along with him for his dinner. This miserable meal was often despatched before eleven o'clock, so that poor Jock had to spend the rest of the day in fasting, and contriving grand methods of obtaining some good meat in future.

There was one thing very teasing: He had a small shieling, which some former herd had built, and plenty of sticks to burn for the gathering or cutting. He had thus a fire every day, without any thing to roast on it. Jock sat over it often in the most profound contemplation, thinking how delightfully a slice of bacon would fry on it,—how he would lay the slice on his hard bannock, and how the juice would ooze out of it! Never was there a man who had richer prospects than Jock had: still his happiness lay only in perspective. But experience teaches man wisdom, and wisdom points out to him many expedients.

Among Jock's fat sheep there was one fat ewe lamb, the flower of the flock, which the goodwife and the goodman both loved and valued above all the rest. She was as beautiful and playful as innocence itself, and, withal, as fat as she could lie in her skin. There was one rueful day, and a hungry one, that Jock had sat long over his little fire of sticks, pondering on the joys of fat flesh. He went out to turn his mischievous calves, whose nebs were never out of an ill deed, and at that time they had strayed into the middle of a corn field. As bad luck would have it, by the way he perceived this dawted ewe lamb lying asleep in the sun; and, out of mere frolic, as any other boy would have done, he flew on above her and tried if he could hold her down. After hard struggling he mastered her, took her between his feet, stroked her snowy fleece and soft downy cheek, and ever, as he patted her, repeated these words, "O but ye be a bonny beast!"

The lamb, however, was not much at her ease; she struggled a little now and then, but finding that it availed not, she gave it over; and seeing her comrades feeding near her, she uttered some piteous bleats. They could afford her no assistance, but they answered her in the same tremulous key. After patting her a good while, Jock began to handle her breast and ribs, and found that she was in good earnest as fat as pork. This was a ticklish experiment for the innocent lamb. Jock was seized with certain inward longings and yearnings that would not be repressed. He hesitated long, long, and sometimes his pity awoke,—but there was another natural feeling that proved the stronger of the two; so Jock at length took out his long knife and unsheathed it. Next he opened the fleece on the lamb's throat till its bonny white skin was laid bare, and not a hair of wool to intervene between it and the point of his knife. He was again seized with deep remorse, as he contemplated the lamb's harmless and helpless look; so he wept aloud, and tried to put his knife again into its sheathe, but he could not.

To make a long tale short, Jock took away the lamb's life, and that not in the most gentle or experienced way. She made no resistance, and only uttered one bleat. "Poor beast!" said Jock; "I dare-say ye like this very ill, but I canna help it. Ye are suffering for a' your bits o' ill done deeds now."

The day of full fruition and happiness for Jock was now arrived. Before evening he had roasted and eaten the kidneys, and almost the whole of the draught or pluck. His heart rejoiced within him, for never was there more delicious food. But the worst of it was, that the devils of calves were going all the while in the middle of a corn field, which his master saw from the house, and sent one running all the way to turn them. The man had also orders to "waken the dirty blackguard callant if he was sleeping, and gie him his licks."

Jock was otherwise employed; but, as luck would have it, the man did not come into his hut, nor discover his heinous crime; for Jock met him among the corn, and took a drubbing with all proper decorum.

But dangers and suspicions encompassed poor Jock now on every side. He sat down to supper at the bottom of the board with the rest of the servants, but he could not eat a single morsel. His eyes were not fixed on the bacon ham as usual, and moreover they had quite lost that sharp green gleam for which they were so remarkable. These were circumstances not to be overlooked by the sharp eyes of his master and mistress.

"What's the matter wi' the bit dirty callant the night?" said the latter. "What ails you, sirrah, that you hae nae ta'en your supper? Are you weel eneugh?"

Jock wasna ill, he said; but he could not enter into particulars about the matter any farther. The goodman said, he feared the blade had been stealing, for he did not kythe like ane that had been fasting a' day; but after the goodwife and he had examined the hams, kebbucks, beef barrel, meal girnel, and every place about the house, they could discern nothing amissing, and gave up farther search, but not suspicion.

Jock trembled lest the fat lamb might be missed in the morning when he drove out his flock, but it was never remarked that the lamb was a-wanting. He took very little breakfast, but drove his kine and sheep, and the devils of calves, away to the far field, and hasted to his wee housie. He borrowed a coal every day from a poor woman, who lived in a cot at the road side, to kindle his fire, and that day she noticed what none else had done, that his coat was all sparked over with blood, and asked him of the reason. Jock was rather startled by the query, and gave her a very suspicious look, but no other answer.

"I fear ye hae been battling wi' some o' your neighbours," said she.

This was a great relief for Jock's heart. "Ay, just that," said he, and went away with his coal.

What a day of feasting Jock had! He sliced and roasted, and roasted and ate till he could hardly walk. Once when the calves were going into a mischief, which they were never out of, he tried to run, but he could not run a foot; so he was obliged to lie down and roll himself on the ground, take a sleep, and then proceed to work again.

There was nutrition in the very steams that issued from Jock's hut; the winds that blew over it carried health and savoury delight over a great extent of country. A poor hungry boy that herded a few lean cows on an adjoining farm, chancing to come into the track of this delicious breeze, became at once like a statue. He durst not move a step for fear of losing the delicious scent; and there he stood with his one foot before the other, his chin on his right shoulder, his eyes shut and his mouth open, his nose being pointed straight to Jock's wee housie. The breeze still grew richer, till at last it led him as straight as there had been a hook in his nose to Jock's shieling; so he popped in, and found Jock at the sublime employment of cooking and eating. The boy gaped and stared at the mangled body of the lamb, and at the rich repast that was going on; but he was a very ignorant and stupid boy, and could not comprehend any thing; so Jock fed him with a good fat piece well roasted, and let him go again to his lean cows.

Jock looked very plump and thriving-like that night; his appearance was quite sleek, somewhat resembling that of a young voluptuary; and, to lull suspicion, he tried to take some supper, but not one bite or soap was he able to swallow. The goodwife, having by that time satisfied herself that nothing was stolen, became concerned about Jock, and wanted him to swallow some physic, which he peremptorily refused to do.

"How can the puir thing tak ony meat?" said she. "He's a' swalled i' the belly. Indeed I rather suspect that he's swalled o'er the hale body."

The next morning, as Jock took out his drove, the goodman was standing at the road side to look at them. Jock's heart grew cold, as well it might, when the goodman called out to him, "Callant, what hae you made o' the gude lamb?"

"Is she no there?" said Jock, after a long pause, for he was so much astounded that he could not speak at the first.

"Is she no there!" cried the goodman again in great wrath, imitating Jock's voice; "If ye binna blind, ye may see that. But I can tell you, my man, gin ye hae letten ought happen to that lamb, ye had better never hae been born."

"What can be comed o' the beast?" said Jock; "I had better look the house, she's may be stayed in by herself."

Jock didna wait for an order, but, glad to be a little farther off from his master, he ran back and looked the fold and sheep-house, and every nettle bush around them, as he had been looking for a lost knife.

"I can see naething o' her," said he, as he came slounging back, hanging his head, and keeping aloof from the goodman, who still carried his long pike staff in his hand.

"But I'll mak you see her, and find her baith, hang-dog," said he; "or deil be in my fingers an I dinna twist your neck about. Are you sure you had her yestreen?"

O yes! Jock was sure he had her yestreen. The women were examined if they had observed her as they milked the cows. They could not tell. None of them had seen her; but they could not say she was not there. All was in commotion about the steading, for the loss of the dawted pet lamb, which was a favourite with every one of the family.

Jock drove his cattle and nine sheep to the field—roasted a good collop or two of his concealed treasure, and snapped them up, but found that they did not relish so well as formerly; for now that his strong appetite for fat flesh was somewhat allayed, yea even fed to loathing, he wished the lamb alive again: He began, moreover, to be in great bodily fear; and to provide against the probability of any discovery being made, he lifted the mangled remains of his prey, and conveyed them into an adjoining wood, where he covered them carefully up with withered leaves, and laid thorns above them, "Now!" said Jock, as he left the thicket, "let them find that out wha can."

The goodman went to all the herds around enquiring after his lamb, but could hear no intelligence of her till he came to the cottage of poor Bessie, the old woman that had furnished Jock with a coal every day. When he put the question to her, the rock and the lint fell out of Bessie's hand, and she sat a while quite motionless.

"What war ye saying, goodman? War ye saying ye had lost your bonnie pet lamb?"

"Even sae, Bessie."

"Then, goodman, I fear you will never see her living again. What kind o' callant is that ye hae gotten? He's rather a suspicious looking chap. I tentit his claes a' spairged wi' blude the tither day, and baith this and some days bygane he has brought in his dinner to me, saying that he dought nae eat it."

Goodman Niddery could make no answer to this, but sat for a while grumphing and groaning as some late events passed over his mind; particularly how Jock's belly was swollen, and how he could not take any supper. But yet the idea that the boy had killed his favourite, and eaten her, was hardly admissible: the deed was so atrocious he could not conceive any human being capable of it, strong as circumstances were against his carnivorous herd. He went away with hurried and impatient steps to Jock's wee house, his old colley dog trotting before him, and his long pike-staff in his hand. Jock eyed him at a distance, and kept out of his path, pretended to be engaged in turning the calves to a right pasture, and running and threshing them with a long goad; for though they were not in any mischief then, he knew that they would soon be in some.

The goodman no sooner set his nose within Jock's shieling than he was convinced some horrid deed had been done. It smelled like a cook's larder; and, moreover, his old dog, who had a very good scent, was scraping among the ashes, and picking up fragments of something which he seemed very much to enjoy. Jock did not know what to do when he saw how matters stood, yet he still had hopes that nothing would appear to criminate him. The worst thing that he saw was the stupid hungered boy on the adjoining farm coming wading through the corn. He had left his dirty lean kine picking up the very roots of the grass, and had come snouking away in hopes of getting another fat bit for his impoverished stomach. But, when he saw Goodman Niddery come out of the cot with impassioned strides, he turned and ran through the strong corn with his whole might, always jumping up as he proceeded.

The goodman called angrily on his old dog to come after him, but he would not come, for he was working with his nose and fore feet among Jock's perfumed ashes with great industry; so the goodman turned back into the house, and hit him over the back with his long pike-staff, which made him glad to give over, and come out about his business; and away the two went to reconnoitre further.

As soon as the old dog was fairly a-field again, he took up the very track by which Jock had carried the carcase that morning, and went as straight as a line to the hidden treasure in the thicket. The goodman took off the thorns, and removed the leaves, and there found all that remained of his favourite and beautiful pet lamb. Her throat was all cut and mangled, her mouth open, and her tongue hanging out, and about one half of her whole body a-wanting. The goodman shed tears of grief, and wept and growled with rage over the mangled form, and forthwith resolved (which was hardly commendable) to seize Jock, and bring him to that very spot and cut his throat.

Jock might have escaped with perfect safety had he had the sense or foresight to have run off as soon as he saw his master enter the wood; but there seems to be an infatuation that directs the actions of some men. Jock did not fly, but went about and about, turning his kine one while, his nine sheep another, and always between hands winning a pelt at one of the ill-conditioned calves, till his incensed master returned from the fatal discovery, and came up to him. There was one excuse for him, he was not sure if the carcase had been found, for he could not see for the wood whether or not his master went to the very place, and he never thought of the sagacity of the dog.

When Goodman Niddery first left the wood, he was half running, and his knees were plaiting under him with the anticipation of horrid revenge. Jock did not much like his gait; so he kept always the herd of cows, and the sheep too, betwixt himself and this half-running master of his. But the goodman was too cunning for poor Jock; he changed his step into a very slow careless walk, and went into the middle of the herd of cows, pretending to be whistling a tune, although it was in fact no tune, but merely a concatenation of tremulous notes on C sharp, without the least fall of harmony. He turned about this cow and the other cow, watching Jock all the while with the tail of his eye, and trilling his hateful whistle. Jock still kept a due distance. At length the goodman called to him, "Callant, come hither, like a man, and help me to wear this cow against the ditch. I want to get haud o' her."

Jock hesitated. He did not like to come within stroke of his master's long stick, neither did he know on what pretence absolutely to refuse his bidding; so he stood still, and it was impossible to know by his looks whether he was going to comply or run off altogether. His master dreaded the latter, and called to him in a still kinder manner, until Jock at last unfortunately yielded. The two wore the cow, and wore the cow, up against the ditch, until the one was close upon her one side, and the other upon her other. "Chproo! hawkie! chproo, my bonnie cow!" cried the goodman, spreading out his arms, with his pike-staff clenched fast in his right hand; then springing by the cow in a moment, he flew upon Jock, crying out, with the voice of a demon, "D—n you, rascal! but I'll do for you now!"

Jock wheeled about to make his escape, and would have beat his master hollow, had he been fairly started, or timeously apprised of his dreadful danger; but ere he had run four or five steps the pike-staff came over the links of his neck such a blow that it laid him flat on his face in a mire. The goodman then seized him by the cuff of the neck with the one hand, and by the hair of his head with the other, and said, with a triumphant and malicious laugh, "Now, get up, and come away wi' me, my braw lad, and I'll let you see sic a sight as you never saw. I'll let you see a wally-dy sight! Get up, like a good cannie lad!"

As he said this he pulled Jock by the hair, and kicked him with his foot, until he obliged him to rise, and in that guise he led him away to the wood. He had a hold of his rough weatherbeaten hair with the one hand, and with the other he heaved the cudgel over him; and as they went the following was some of the discourse that passed between them.

"Come away, now, my fine lad. Are nae ye a braw, honest, good callant? Do nae ye think ye deserve something that's unco good frae me? Eh? Ay, ye surely deserve something better nor ordinar': And ye shall hae it too."—(Then a kick on the posteriors, or a lounder with the staff.)—"Come your ways like a sonsy, brave callant, and I'll let you see a bonny thing and a braw thing in yon brake o' the wood, ye ken."

Jock cried so piteously that, if his master had not had a heart of stone, he would have relented, and not continued in his fatal purpose; but he only grew the longer the more furious.

"O let me gang! let me gang! let me gang!" cried Jock. "Let me gang! let me gang! for it wasna me. I dinna ken naething about it ata'!"

"Ye dinna ken naething about what, my puir man?"

"About yon bit sheep i' the wood, ye ken."

"You rascal! you rogue! you villain! you have confessed that you kend about it, when I wasna speiring ony sic question at you. You hound! you dog! you savage wolf that you are! Mother of God! but I will do for you! You whelp! you dog! you scoundrel! come along here." (Another hard blow.) "Tell me now, my precious lad, an ye war gaun to be killed, as ye ken something about killing, whether would you choose to have your throat cut, or to have your feet tied and be skinned alive?"

"O dinna kill me! dinna kill me!" cried poor Jock. "My dear master, dinna kill me, for I canna brook it. Oh, oh! an ye kill me I'll tell my mother, that will I; and what will Marion say t'ye, when she has nane but me? Oh master, dinna kill me, and I'll never do the like o't again!"

"Nay, I shall take warrant for that: you shall never do the like o't again!"

In this melancholy and heart-breaking manner he dragged him on all the way by the rough towsy head, kicking him one while, and beating him another, till he brought him to the very spot where the mangled remains of the pet lamb were lying. It was a blasting sight for poor Jock, especially as it doubled his master's rage and stern revenge, and these were, in all conscience, high enough wrought before. He twined the hapless culprit round by the hair, and knocked him with his fist, for he had dropped the staff to enable him to force Jock to the place of sacrifice; and he swore by many an awful oath, that if it should cost him his life, he would do to Jock as he had done to that innocent lamb.

With that he threw him on the ground, and got above him with his knees; and Jock having by that time lost all hope of moving his ruthless master by tears or prayers, began a struggling with the force which desperation sometimes gives, and fought with such success that it was with difficulty his master could manage him.

It was very much like a battle between an inveterate terrier and a bull dog; but, in spite of all that Jock could do, the goodman got out his knife. It was not, however, one like Jock's, for it had a folding blade, and was very hard to open, and the effecting of this was no easy task, for he could not get both his hands to it. In this last desperate struggle, Jock got hold of his master's cheek with his left hand, and his nails being very long, he held it so strait that he was like to tear it off. His master capered up with his head, holding it back the full length of Jock's arm; yet still being unable to extricate his cheek from Jock's hold, he raised up his knife in his right hand in order to open it with his teeth, and, in the first place, to cut off Jock's hand, and his head afterwards. He was holding down Jock with his right knee and his left hand; and while in the awkward capering attitude of opening his knife, his face was turned nearly straight up, and his eyes had quite lost sight of his victim. Jock held up his master's cheek, and squeezed it still the more, which considerably impeded his progress in getting the knife open; and, at that important moment, Jock whipped out his own knife, his old dangerous friend, and struck it into the goodman's belly to the haft. The moment he received the wound he sprang up as if he had been going to fly into the air, uttered a loud roar, and fell back above his dead pet lamb.