He therefore proposed that Mr. Waverley should go to Janet Gellatley’s and bring the Baron up under cloud of night to Little Veolan, where he might once more enjoy the luxury of a good bed.  In the meanwhile, he said, he himself would go to Captain Foster and show him the Baron’s protection, and obtain his countenance for harbouring him that night, and he would have horses ready on the morrow to set him on his way to the Duchran along with Mr. Stanley, ’whilk denomination, I apprehend, your honour will for the present retain,’ said the Bailie.

’Certainly, Mr. Macwheeble; but will you not go down to the glen yourself in the evening to meet your patron?’

‘That I wad wi’ a’ my heart; and mickle obliged to your honour for putting me in mind o’ mybounden duty.  But it will be past sunset afore I get back frae the Captain’s, and at these unsonsy hours the glen has a bad name; there’s something no that canny about auld Janet Gellatley.  The Laird he’ll no believe thae things, but he was aye ower rash and venturesome, and feared neither man nor deevil, an sae’s seen o’t.  But right sure am I Sir George Mackenyie says, that no divine can doubt there are witches, since the Bible says thou shalt not suffer them to live; and that no lawyer in Scotland can doubt it, since it is punishable with death by our law.  So there’s baith law and gospel for it.  An his honour winna believe the Leviticus, he might aye believe the Statute-book; but he may tak his ain way o’t; it’s a’ ane to Duncan Macwheeble.  However, I shall send to ask up auld Janet this e’en; it’s best no to lightly them that have that character; and we’ll want Davie to turn the spit, for I’ll gar Eppie put down a fat goose to the fire for your honours to your supper.’

When it was near sunset Waverley hastened to the hut; and he could not but allow that superstition had chosen no improper locality, or unfit object, for the foundation of her fantastic terrors.  It resembled exactly the description of Spenser:—­

    There, in a gloomy hollow glen, she found
    A little cottage built of sticks and reeds,
    In homely wise, and wall’d with sods around,
    In which a witch did dwell in loathly weeds,
    And wilful want, all careless of her needs,
    So choosing solitary to abide
    Far from all neighbours, that her devilish deeds,
    And hellish arts, from people she might hide,
    And hurt far off, unknown, whomsoever she espied.

He entered the cottage with these verses in his memory.  Poor old Janet, bent double with age and bleared with peat-smoke, was tottering about the hut with a birch broom, muttering to herself as she endeavoured to make her hearth and floor a little clean for the reception of her expected guests.  Waverley’s step made her start, look up, and fall a-trembling, so much had her nerves been on the rack for her patron’s safety.  With difficulty Waverley made her comprehend that the Baron was now safe from personal danger;