This selfish injustice was resented by the country people, who were partial to their old master, and irritated against his successor.  In the Baron’s own words, ’The matter did not coincide with the feelings of the commons of Bradwardine, Mr. Waverley; and the tenants were slack and repugnant in payment of their mails and duties; and when my kinsman came to the village wi’ the new factor, Mr. James Howie, to lift the rents, some wanchancy person —­I suspect John Heatherblutter, the auld gamekeeper, that was out wi’ me in the year fifteen—­fired a shot at him in the gloaming, whereby he was so affrighted, that I may say with Tullius In Catilinam, “Abiit, evasit, erupit, effugit.”  He fled, sir, as one may say, incontinent to Stirling.  And now he hath advertised the estate for sale, being himself the last substitute in the entail.  And if I were to lament about sic matters, this would grieve me mair than its passing from my immediate possession, whilk, by the course of nature, must have happened in a few years; whereas now it passes from the lineage that should have possessed it in scecula saculorum.  But God’s will be done, humana perpessi sumus.  Sir John of Bradwardine—­Black Sir John, as he is called—­who was the common ancestor of our house and the Inch-Grabbits, little thought such a person would have sprung from his loins.  Mean time, he has accused me to some of the primates, the rulers for the time, as if I were a cut-throat, and an abettor of bravoes and assassinates and coupe-jarrets.  And they have sent soldiers here to abide on the estate, and hunt me like a partridge upon the mountains, as Scripture says of good King David, or like our valiant Sir William Wallace—­not that I bring myself into comparison with either.  I thought, when I heard you at the door, they had driven the auld deer to his den at last; and so I e’en proposed to die at bay, like a buck of the first head.  But now, Janet, canna ye gie us something for supper?’ ’Ou ay, sir, I’ll brander the moor-fowl that John Heatherblutter brought in this morning; and ye see puir Davie’s roasting the black hen’s eggs.  I daur say, Mr. Wauverley, ye never kend that a’ the eggs that were sae weel roasted at supper in the Ha’-house were aye turned by our Davie? there’s no the like o’ him ony gate for powtering wi’ his fingers amang the het peat-ashes and roasting eggs.’  Davie all this while lay with his nose almost in the fire, nuzzling among the ashes, kicking his heels, mumbling to himself, turning the eggs as they lay in the hot embers, as if to confute the proverb, that ‘there goes reason to roasting of eggs,’ and justify the eulogium which poor Janet poured out upon

    Him whom she loved, her idiot boy.