“Tell me about the officer men, granny,” said Winsome.

“‘Deed wull I no.  It wad be mair tellin’ ye gin ye were learnin’ yer Caritches” [Westminster Catechism].

“But, grandmammy dear, I thought that you said that the officer men ran away from you—­”

“Hear till her!  Rin frae me?  Certes, ye’re no blate.  They cam’ frae far an’ near to get a word wi’ me.  Na, there was nae rinnin’ frae a bonny lass in thae days.  Weel, there was three o’ them; an’ they cam’ ower the hill to see the lasses, graund in their reed breeks slashed wi’ yellow.  An’ what for no, they war his Majesty’s troopers; an’ though nae doot they had been on the wrang side o’ the dyke, they were braw chiels for a’ that!”

“An’ they cam’ to see you, granny?” asked Winsome, who approved of the subject.

“What else—­but they got an unco begunk [cheat].  Ye see, my faither had bocht an awfu’ thrawn young bull at the Dumfries fair, an’ he had been gaun gilravagin’ aboot; an’ whaur should the contrary beast betak’ himsel’ to but into the Roman camp on Craig Ronald bank, where the big ditch used to be?  There we heard him routin’ for three days till the cotmen fand him i’ the hinderend, an’ poo’ed him oot wi’ cart-rapes.  But when he got oot—­certes, but he was a wild beast!  He got at Jock Hinderlands afore he could climb up a tree; an’, fegs, he gaed up a tree withoot clim’in’, I’se warrant, an’ there he hung, hanket by the waistband o’ his breeks, baa-haain’ for his minnie to come and lift him doon, an’ him as muckle a clampersome [awkward] hobbledehoy as ever ye saw!

“Then what did Carlaverock Jock do but set his heid to a yett [gate] and ding it in flinders; fair fire-wood he made o’t; an’ sae, rampagin’ into the meadow across whilk,” continued the old lady, with a rising delight in her eye, “the three cavalry men were comin’ to see me, wi’ the spurs on them jangling clear.  Reed breeks did na suit Jock’s taste at the best o’ times, and he had no been brocht up to countenance yellow facin’s.  So the three braw King George’s sodgers that had dune sic graund things at Waterloo took the quickest road through the meadow.  Captain St. Clair, he trippit on his sword, an’ was understood to cry oot that he had never eaten beef in his life.  Ensign Withershins threw his shako ower his shoother and jumpit intil the water, whaur he expressed his opinion o’ Carlaverock Jock stan’in’ up to his neck in Luckie Mowatt’s pool—­the words I dinna juist call to mind at this present time, which, indeed, is maybe as weel; but it was Lieutenant Lichtbody, o’ his Majesty’s Heavy Dragoons, that cam’ aff at the waurst.  He made for the stane dyke, the sven-fite march dyke that rins up the hill, ye ken.  Weel, he made as if he wad mak’ ower it, but Boreland’a big Heelant bull had heard the routin’ o’ his friend Carlaverock Jock, an’ was there wi’ his horns spread like a man keppin’ yowes [catching sheep].  Aye, my certes!” here the old lady paused, overcome by the humour of her recollections, laughing in her glee a delightfully catching and mellow laugh, in which Winsome joined.