“Splash!” echoed Archie with a grim laugh.  “She’s gane a’ into jaups.  She maun hae thocht she was a juck-pool.  I would like to dee like a Christian when I dee, and no’ shuffle oot like a scattered explosion, or a humplick o’ mince.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake shut your mooth, an’ let us get her gathered up an’ get oot o’ here.  Dammit, hae ye nae common sense, swearin’ an’ jokin’ about sic a thing!  It’s enough to tempt Providence, an’ had it no’ been for the tumblerful o’ whisky that Mr. Rundell gied us I dinna think I could hae faced it.  It’s awfu’!”

“What the hell are ye girnin’ at?” asked Archie, turning round on him.  “Are ye feart Mag bites ye?  Man, she’s got a’ her bitin’ by noo, although I admit she’s made a hell o’ a mess at the end.  Pit your shovel in here an’ lift this pickle, an’ no’ stand there gapin’ like a grisly ghost at the door o’ hell!  Fling it into her gapin’ mouth, if you think she’s goin’ to bite you!” and the others laughed uneasily at Archie’s sardonic humor.

It was a nerve-trying experience for most of them, and they felt sick with horror of it, in spite of the whisky and their grim jokes.  The pit was put idle, and the men went home.  A gloom brooded over the whole place.

Black Jock saw Mag Robertson’s eyes staring at him, as he hurried over the moor.  He had not even stopped to wash himself, but merely stowing some money into his pocket, was off, not deigning to answer his daughter’s enquiries as to what was wrong, or where he was going.  Every wild bird upon the moor seemed to shout at him in accusation; every living thing seemed to scream out in terror as he approached.

He laughed a harsh laugh, like the cry of a wild beast, and the sheep scampered away in fear.  The wind moaned out of the gray clouds, which lay thick upon the hidden hills, and there was an early iciness in its breath as it groaned past; A soft, slushy sound rose from the moor at every step, until it seemed that even earth protested.  Eerie and sad the moor was, gray and threatening the hills.  Laughing at intervals that low gurgle which sprang from fear, as some wild bird would start up at his approach, he plodded on.

He did not know where he was going.  He had no particular objective.  He did not know what line he would pursue.  He only wanted to get away from the scene of the tragedy, and those terrible eyes staring, which seemed to follow him from behind every bush or clump of heather, till in the gray mist it seemed as if the moor were alive with them.

Eyes everywhere.  Eyes that never winked or moved.  Eyes that never trembled with recognition or glimmered with life.  Dead eyes, cold eyes, immovable and clear—­horribly clear they were—­eyes that simply stared, neither showing accusation nor denunciation; but there they were at every tuft of yellow grass, behind every moss-hag, and staring like pools of clear silent death, which struck horror to his heart.  He bounded sideways as a partridge on whirring wing flew away at his approach, and almost dropped dead with fright as a muircock, with loud protesting voice, seemed to scream:  “’way back! ’way back! ’way back!” and then, drawing out into a low grumbling command, as it came to earth a few hundred yards away, still muttering its orders to him, as he momentarily stood to recover from his fright.