“Many thanks, Hobbie,” answered Earnscliff; “but I hope we shall have no war of so unnatural and unchristian a kind in our time.”

“Hout, sir, hout,” replied Elliot; “it wad be but a wee bit neighbour war, and Heaven and earth would make allowances for it in this uncultivated place—­it’s just the nature o’ the folk and the land—­we canna live quiet like Loudon folk—­we haena sae muckle to do.  It’s impossible.”

“Well, Hobbie,” said the Laird, “for one who believes so deeply as you do in supernatural appearances, I must own you take Heaven in your own hand rather audaciously, considering where we are walking.”

“What needs I care for the Mucklestane-Moor ony mair than ye do yoursell, Earnscliff?” said Hobbie, something offended; “to be sure, they do say there’s a sort o’ worricows and lang-nebbit things about the land, but what need I care for them?  I hae a good conscience, and little to answer for, unless it be about a rant amang the lasses, or a splore at a fair, and that’s no muckle to speak of.  Though I say it mysell, I am as quiet a lad and as peaceable—­”

“And Dick Turnbull’s head that you broke, and Willie of Winton whom you shot at?” said his travelling companion.

“Hout, Earnscliff, ye keep a record of a’ men’s misdoings—­Dick’s head’s healed again, and we’re to fight out the quarrel at Jeddart, on the Rood-day, so that’s like a thing settled in a peaceable way; and then I am friends wi’ Willie again, puir chield—­it was but twa or three hail draps after a’.  I wad let onybody do the like o’t to me for a pint o’ brandy.  But Willie’s lowland bred, poor fallow, and soon frighted for himsell—­And, for the worricows, were we to meet ane on this very bit—­”

“As is not unlikely,” said young Earnscliff, “for there stands your old witch, Hobbie.”

“I say,” continued Elliot, as if indignant at this hint—­“I say, if the auld carline hersell was to get up out o’ the grund just before us here, I would think nae mair—­But, gude preserve us, Earnscliff; what can yon, be!”

CHAPTER III.

     Brown Dwarf, that o’er the moorland strays,
     Thy name to Keeldar tell! 
     “The Brown Man of the Moor, that stays
     Beneath the heather-bell.”—­John Leyden

The object which alarmed the young farmer in the middle of his valorous protestations, startled for a moment even his less prejudiced companion.  The moon, which had arisen during their conversation, was, in the phrase of that country, wading or struggling with clouds, and shed only a doubtful and occasional light.  By one of her beams, which streamed upon the great granite column to which they now approached, they discovered a form, apparently human, but of a size much less than ordinary, which moved slowly among the large grey stones, not like a person intending to journey onward, but with the slow, irregular, flitting movement of a being who hovers around some spot of melancholy recollection, uttering also, from time to time, a sort of indistinct muttering sound.  This so much resembled his idea of the motions of an apparition, that Hobbie Elliot, making a dead pause, while his hair erected itself upon his scalp, whispered to his companion, “It’s Auld Ailie hersell!  Shall I gie her a shot, in the name of God?”