sae for days. But at last anither woman, who
Saw what was wrang, recommended eight
poultices o' kyeshairn (one every night) from the
innermost kye i' the byre. They gied her the
poultices, and the lassie got weel."
*She squinted.

"That was as strange a remedy as the
buried cat," observed the Wanderer; "but I
did not know such people possessed the power
of casting the trouble on human beings."

Hamish puffed his pipe, and looked quietly
at the sky. It was some minutes before he
spoke again.

"There was a witch family," he said at last,
"in Loch Carron, where I was born and reared.
They lived their lane close to the sea. There
were three o' them—the mither, a son, and a
daughter. The mither had great lumps all
o'er her arms, and sae had the daughter; but
the son was a clean-hided lad, and he was the
cleverest. Folk said he had the power o' healing
the sick, but only in ae way, by transferring
the disease to him that brought the
message seeking help. Ance, I mind, a man
was sent till him on horseback, bidding him
come and heal a fisher who was up on the hill
and like to dee. The warlock mounted his
pony, and said to the man, 'Draw back a bit,
and let me ride before ye.' The man, kenning
nae better, let him pass, and followed ahint.
They had to pass through a glen, and in the
middle of the glen an auld wife was standing
at her door. When she saw the messenger
riding ahint the warlock, she screeched out to
him as loud as she could cry: 'Ride, ride, and
reach the sick lad first, or ye're a dead man!'
At that, the warlock looked black as thunder,
and galloped his pony; but the messenger
being better mounted, o'ertook him fast, and
got first to the sick man's bedside. In the
nicht the sick man died. Ye see, the warlock
had nae power o' shifting the complaint but on
him that brought the message, and no' on him
if the warlock didna reach the house before the
messenger."

Here the Viking emerged with the whisky
bottle, and Hamish Shaw wet his lips. We
were gliding gently along now, and the hills of
Uist were still dimly visible. The deep roll of
the sea would have been disagreeable, perhaps,
to the uninitiated, but we were hardened.
While the Viking sat by, gazing gloomily into
the darkness, the Wanderer pursued his chat
with Shaw, or, rather, incited the latter to
further soliloquies.

"Do you know, Hamish," he said, slyly, "it
seems to me very queer that Providence should
suffer such pranks to be played, and should
entrust such marvellous power to such wretched
hands. Come, now; do you actually fancy that
these things have happened?"

But Hamish Shaw was not the man to commit
himself. He was a philosopher.

"I'm of the opinion," he replied, "that it
would be wrong to be o'er positive. Provdence
does as queer things, whiles, as either man
or woman. There was a strange cry, like the
whistle of a bird, heard every nicht close to
the cottage before Wattie Macleod's smack was
lost on St. John's Point, and Wattie and his son
were drowned; then it stoppit. Whiles it comes
like a sheep crying, whiles like the sound o'
pipes. I heard it mysel' when my brither Angus
died. He had been awa' o'er the country and
his horse had fallen, and kickit him on the
navel. But before he heard a word about it,
the wife and I were on the road to Angus's
house, and were coming near the burn that
parted his house from mine. It was nicht, and
bright moonlicht. The wife was heavy at the
time, and suddenly she grippit me by the
arm and whispered, 'Wheesht! do ye hear?'
I listened, and at first I heard nothing,
"Wheesht, again!" says she; and then I heard
it plain—like the low blowing o' the bagpipes,
slowly and sadly, wi' nae tune. 'O, Hamish,'
said the wife, ' wha can it be?' I said
naething, but I felt my back all cold, and a sharp
thread running through my heart. It followed
us along us far as Angus's door, and then it
went awa'. Angus was sitting by the fire;
they had just brought him hame; and he told
us o' the fall and the kick. He was pale, but
didna think much was wrang wi' him, and
talked quite cheerful and loud. The wife was
sick and frighted, and they gave her a dram;
they thought it was her trouble, for her time
was near, but she was thinking o' the sign we
had heard. Though we knew fine that Angus
wouldna live, we didna dare to speak o' what
we had heard. Going hame that nicht, we
heard it again, and in a week he was lying in
his grave."

The darkness, the hushed breathing of the
sea, the sough of the wind through the
rigging, greatly deepened the effect of this tale.
The Viking listened intently, as if he expected
every moment to hear a similar sound presaging
his own doom. Hamish Shaw showed no
emotion. He told his tale as mere matter-of-fact,
with no elocutionary effects, and kept his
eye to windward all the time, literally looking
out for squalls.

"For heaven's sake," cried the Viking
"choose some other subject of conversation.
We are in bad enough plight already, and don't
want any more horrors."

"What! Afraid of ghosts?"

"No, dash it!" returned the Viking; "but
—but—as sure as I live, there's storm in yon
sky!"

The look of the sky to windward was
not improving; it was becoming smoked over
with thick mist. Though we were now only
a few miles off the Uist coast, the loom
of the land was scarcely visible; the vapours
peculiar to such coasts seemed rising and
gradually wrapping everything in their folds. Still,
as far as we could make out from the stars,
there was no carry in the sky.

"I'll no' say," observed Hamish, taking in
everything at a glance; "I'll no' say but
there may be wind ere morning; but it will
be wind off the shore, and we hae the hills for
shelter."

"But the squalls! The squalls!" cried the
Viking.