It was not till after he had swallowed a dram of brandy that he found his voice, and said: 

“We’ve the deaul himsel’ in t’ house!  By Jen! ye’d best send fo t’ sir” (the clergyman).  “Happen he’ll tak him in hand wi’ holy writ, and send him elsewhidder deftly.  Lord atween us and harm!  I’m a sinfu’ man.  I tell ye, Mr. Turnbull, I dar’ n’t stop in t’ George to-night under the same roof wi’ him.”

“Ye mean the ra-beyoned, black-feyaced lad, wi’ the brocken neb?  Why, that’s a gentleman wi’ a pocket ful o’ guineas, man, and a horse worth fifty pounds!”

“That horse is no better nor his rider.  The nags that were in the stable wi’ him, they all tuk the creepins, and sweated like rain down a thack.  I tuk them all out o’ that, away from him, into the hack-stable, and I thocht I cud never get them past him.  But that’s not all.  When I was keekin inta t’ winda at the nags, he comes behint me and claps his claw on ma shouther, and he gars me gang wi’ him, and open the aad coach-house door, and haad the cannle for him, till he pearked into the deed man’t feyace; and, as God’s my judge, I sid the corpse open its eyes and wark its mouth, like a man smoorin’ and strivin’ to talk.  I cudna move or say a word, though I felt my hair rising on my heed; but at lang-last I gev a yelloch, and say I, ’La! what is that?’ And he himsel’ looked round on me, like the devil he is; and, wi’ a skirl o’ a laugh, he strikes the lantern out o’ my hand.  When I cum to myself we were outside the coach-house door.  The moon was shinin’ in, ad I cud see the corpse stretched on the table whar we left it; and he kicked the door to wi’ a purr o’ his foot.  ‘Lock it,’ says he; and so I did.  And here’s the key for ye—­tak it yoursel’, sir.  He offer’d me money:  he said he’d mak me a rich man if I’d sell him the corpse, and help him awa’ wi’ it.”

“Hout, man!  What cud he want o’ t’ corpse?  He’s not doctor, to do a’ that lids.  He was takin’ a rise out o’ ye, lad,” said Turnbull.

“Na, na—­he wants the corpse.  There’s summat you a’ me can’t tell he wants to do wi’ ‘t; and he’d liefer get it wi’ sin and thievin’, and the damage of my soul.  He’s one of them freytens a boo or a dobbies off Dardale Moss, that’s always astir wi’ the like after nightfall; unless—­Lord save us!—­he be the deaul himsel.’”

“Whar is he noo?” asked the landlord, who was growing uncomfortable.

“He spang’d up the back stair to his room.  I wonder you didn’t hear him trampin’ like a wild horse; and he clapt his door that the house shook again—­but Lord knows whar he is noo.  Let us gang awa’s up to the Vicar’s, and gan him come down, and talk wi’ him.”

“Hoity toity, man—­you’re too easy scared,” said the landlord, pale enough by this time. “’Twould be a fine thing, truly, to send abroad that the house was haunted by the deaul himsel’!  Why, ’twould be the ruin o’ the George.  You’re sure ye locked the door on the corpse?”