“For Heaven’s sake, no,” said his companion, holding down the weapon which he was about to raise to the aim—­“for Heaven’s sake, no; it’s some poor distracted creature.”

“Ye’re distracted yoursell, for thinking of going so near to her,” said Elliot, holding his companion in his turn, as he prepared to advance.  “We’ll aye hae time to pit ower a bit prayer (an I could but mind ane) afore she comes this length—­God! she’s in nae hurry,” continued he, growing bolder from his companion’s confidence, and the little notice the apparition seemed to take of them.  “She hirples like a hen on a het girdle.  I redd ye, Earnscliff” (this he added in a gentle whisper), “let us take a cast about, as if to draw the wind on a buck—­the bog is no abune knee-deep, and better a saft road as bad company.” [The Scots use the epithet soft, in Malam PARTEM, in two cases, at least.  A soft road is a road through quagmire and bogs; and soft weather signifies that which is very rainy.]

Earnscliff, however, in spite of his companion’s resistance and remonstrances, continued to advance on the path they had originally pursued, and soon confronted the object of their investigation.

The height of the figure, which appeared even to decrease as they approached it, seemed to be under four feet, and its form, as far as the imperfect light afforded them the means of discerning, was very nearly as broad as long, or rather of a spherical shape, which could only be occasioned by some strange personal deformity.  The young sportsman hailed this extraordinary appearance twice, without receiving any answer, or attending to the pinches by which his companion endeavoured to intimate that their best course was to walk on, without giving farther disturbance to a being of such singular and preternatural exterior.  To the third repeated demand of “Who are you?  What do you here at this hour of night?”—­a voice replied, whose shrill, uncouth, and dissonant tones made Elliot step two paces back, and startled even his companion, “Pass on your way, and ask nought at them that ask nought at you.”

“What do you do here so far from shelter?  Are you benighted on your journey?  Will you follow us home (’God forbid!’ ejaculated Hobbie Elliot, involuntarily), and I will give you a lodging?”

“I would sooner lodge by mysell in the deepest of the Tarras-flow,” again whispered Hobbie.

“Pass on your way,” rejoined the figure, the harsh tones of his voice still more exalted by passion.  “I want not your guidance—­I want not your lodging—­it is five years since my head was under a human roof, and I trust it was for the last time.”

“He is mad,” said Earnscliff.

“He has a look of auld Humphrey Ettercap, the tinkler, that perished in this very moss about five years syne,” answered his superstitious companion; “but Humphrey wasna that awfu’ big in the bouk.”

“Pass on your way,” reiterated the object of their curiosity, “the breath of your human bodies poisons the air around me—­the sound of pour human voices goes through my ears like sharp bodkins.”