its thickest and deepest bloom.  The bees, which the Solitary had added to his rural establishment, were abroad and on the wing, and filled the air with the murmurs of their industry.  As the old man crept out of his little hut, his two she-goats came to meet him, and licked his hands in gratitude for the vegetables with which he supplied them from his garden.  “You, at least,” he said—­“you, at least, see no differences in form which can alter your feelings to a benefactor—­to you, the finest shape that ever statuary moulded would be an object of indifference or of alarm, should it present itself instead of the mis-shapen trunk to whose services you are accustomed.  While I was in the world, did I ever meet with such a return of gratitude?  No; the domestic whom I had bred from infancy made mouths at me as he stood behind my chair; the friend whom I had supported with my fortune, and for whose sake I had even stained—­(he stopped with a strong convulsive shudder), even he thought me more fit for the society of lunatics—­for their disgraceful restraints—­for their cruel privations, than for communication with the rest of humanity.  Hubert alone—­and Hubert too will one day abandon me.  All are of a piece, one mass of wickedness, selfishness, and ingratitude—­wretches, who sin even in their devotions; and of such hardness of heart, that they do not, without hypocrisy, even thank the Deity himself for his warm sun and pure air.”

As he was plunged in these gloomy soliloquies, he heard the tramp of a horse on the other side of his enclosure, and a strong clear bass voice singing with the liveliness inspired by a light heart,

     Canny Hobbie Elliot, canny Hobbie now,
     Canny Hobbie Elliot, I’se gang alang wi’ you.

At the same moment, a large deer greyhound sprung over the hermit’s fence.  It is well known to the sportsmen in these wilds, that the appearance and scent of the goat so much resemble those of their usual objects of chase, that the best-broke greyhounds will sometimes fly upon them.  The dog in question instantly pulled down and throttled one of the hermit’s she-goats, while Hobbie Elliot, who came up, and jumped from his horse for the purpose, was unable to extricate the harmless animal from the fangs of his attendant until it was expiring.  The Dwarf eyed, for a few moments, the convulsive starts of his dying favourite, until the poor goat stretched out her limbs with the twitches and shivering fit of the last agony.  He then started into an access of frenzy, and unsheathing a long sharp knife, or dagger, which he wore under his coat, he was about to launch it at the dog, when Hobbie, perceiving his purpose, interposed, and caught hold of his hand, exclaiming, “Let a be the hound, man—­let a be the hound!—­Na, na, Killbuck maunna be guided that gate, neither.”

The Dwarf turned his rage on the young farmer; and, by a sudden effort, far more powerful than Hobbie expected from such a person, freed his wrist from his grasp, and offered the dagger at his heart.  All this was done in the twinkling of an eye, and the incensed Recluse might have completed his vengeance by plunging the weapon in Elliot’s bosom, had he not been checked by an internal impulse which made him hurl the knife to a distance.