“And who were these Federats?” I inquired.

“The Lairds o’ Federat?” said he, moistening his mouth again as a preamble to his oration.  “Troth, frae their deeds ane would maist think that they had a drap o’ the deil’s blude, like the pyets.  Gin a’ tales be true, they hae the warmest place at his bink this vera minute.  I dinna ken vera muckle about them though, but the auldest fouk said they were just byous wi’ cruelty.  Mony a good man did they hing up i’ their ha’, just for their ain sport; ye’ll see the ring to the fore yet in the roof o ‘t.  Did ye never hear o’ Mauns’ Stane, neebour?”

“Mauns’ what?” said I.

“Ou, Mauns’ Stane.  But it’s no likely.  Ye see it was just a queer clump o’ a roun’-about heathen, waghlin’ may be twa tons or thereby.  It wasna like ony o’ the stanes in our countra, an’ it was as roun’ as a fit-ba’; I’m sure it wad ding Professor Couplan himsel’ to tell what way it cam’ there.  Noo, fouk aye thought there was something uncanny about it, an’ some gaed the length o’ saying that the deil used to bake ginshbread upon’t; and, as sure as ye’re sitting there, frien’, there was knuckle-marks upon ’t, for my ain father has seen them as aften as I have taes an’ fingers.  Aweel, ye see, Mauns Crawford, the last o’ the Lairds o’ Federat, an’ the deil had coost out (may be because the laird was just as wicked an’ as clever as he was himsel’), an’ ye perceive the evil ane wantit to play him a trick.  Noo, Mauns Crawford was ae day lookin’ ower his castle wa’, and he saw a stalwart carle, in black claes, ridin’ up the loanin’.  He stopped at this chuckie o’ a stane, an’ loutin’ himsel’, he took it up in his arms, and lifted it three times to his saddle-bow, an’ syne he rade awa out o’ sight, never comin’ near the castle, as Mauns thought he would hae done.  ‘Noo,’ says the baron till himsel’, says he, ‘I didna think that there was ony ane in a’ the land that could hae played sic a ploy; but deil fetch me if I dinna lift it as weel as he did!’ Sae aff he gaed, for there wasna sic a man for birr in a’ the countra, an’ he kent it as weel, for he never met wi’ his match.  Weel, he tried, and tugged, and better than tugged at the stane, but he coudna mudge it ava; an’ when he looked about, he saw a man at his ilbuck, a’ smeared wi’ smiddy-coom, snightern an’ laughin’ at him.  The laird d—–­d him, an’ bade him lift it, whilk he did as gin ’t had been a little pinnin.  The laird was like to burst wi’ rage at being fickled by sic a hag-ma-hush carle, and he took to the stane in a fury, and lifted it till his knee; but the weight o ’t amaist ground his banes to smash.  He held the stane till his een-strings crackit, when he was as blin’ as a moudiwort.  He was blin’ till the day o’ his death,—­that’s to say, if ever he died, for there were queer sayings about it—­vera queer! vera queer!  The stane was ca’d Mauns’ Stane ever after; an’ it was no thought that canny to be near it after gloaming; for what says the Psalm—­hem!—­I mean the sang—­