was Picardy, a village where the French weavers wrought for the Linen
Company. Here I got a fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; and a
little beyond, on the wayside, came by a gibbet and two men hanged in
chains. They were dipped in tar, as the manner is; the wind span them,
the chains clattered, and the birds hung about the uncanny jumping-jacks
and cried. The sight coming on me suddenly, like an illustration of my
fears, I could scarce be done with examining it and drinking in
discomfort. And as I thus turned and turned about the gibbet, what
should I strike on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind a leg of it,
and nodded, and talked aloud to herself with becks and courtesies.

"Who are these two, mother?" I asked, and pointed to the corpses.

"A blessing on your precious face!" she cried. "Twa joes[7] o' mine:
just twa o' my old joes, my hinny dear."

"What did they suffer for?" I asked.

"Ou, just for the guid cause," said she. "Aften I spaed to them the way
that it would end. Twa shillin' Scots; no pickle mair; and there are twa
bonny callants hingin' for 't! They took it frae a wean[8] belanged to
Brouchton."

"Ay!" said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, "and did they come
to such a figure for so poor a business? This is to lose all indeed."

"Gie's your loof,[9] hinny," says she, "and let me spae your weird to
ye."

"No, mother," said I, "I see far enough the way I am. It's an unco thing