“It’s Tod,” says grandfaither, and passed the gless to Sandie.

“Ay, it’s him,” says Sandie.

“Or ane in the likeness o’ him,’’ says grandfaither.

“Sma’ is the differ,” quo’ Sandie.  “De’il or warlock, I’ll try the gun at him,” quo’ he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a notable famous shot in all that country.

“Haud your hand, Sandie,” says grandfaither; “we maun see clearer first,” says he, “or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.”

“Hout!” says Sandie, “this is the Lord’s judgments surely, and be damned to it!” says he.

“Maybe ay, and maybe no,” says my grandfaither, worthy man!  “But have you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have forgaithered wi’ before,” says he.

This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee.  “Aweel, Edie,” says he, “and what would be your way of it?”

“Ou, just this,” says grandfaither.  “Let me that has the fastest boat gang back to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye on Thon.  If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of us’ll have a crack wi’ him.  But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up the flag at the harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi’ the gun.”

Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa.  I was just a bairn, an’ clum in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thoucht I would see the best of the employ.  My grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid draps, bein’ mair deidly again bogles.  And then the ae boat set aff for North Berwick, an’ the tither lay whaur it was and watched the wanchancy thing on the braeside.

A’ the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and span like a teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span.  I hae seen lassies, the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht, and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in.  But there would be folk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg them on; and this thing was its lee-lane.  And there would be a fiddler diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae music but the skirling of the solans.  And the lassies were bits o’ young things wi’ the reid life dinnling and stending in their members; and this was a muckle, fat, crieshy man, and him fa’n in the vale o’ years.  Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe.  It was joy was in the creature’s heart; the joy o’ hell, I daursay:  joy whatever.  Mony a time I have askit mysel’, why witches and warlocks should sell their sauls (whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik dancing a’ they hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart.  Nae doubt they burn for it in muckle hell, but they have a grand time here of it, whatever!—­and the Lord forgie us!