"Hout, sir, hout," replied Elliot; "it wad be but a wee bit neighbour
war, and Heaven and earth would make allowances for it in this
uncultivated place--it's just the nature o' the folk and the land--we
canna live quiet like Loudon folk--we haena sae muckle to do. It's
impossible."

"Well, Hobbie," said the Laird, "for one who believes so deeply as you
do in supernatural appearances, I must own you take Heaven in your own
hand rather audaciously, considering where we are walking."

"What needs I care for the Mucklestane-Moor ony mair than ye do
yoursell, Earnscliff?" said Hobbie, something offended; "to be sure,
they do say there's a sort o' worricows and lang-nebbit things about the
land, but what need I care for them? I hae a good conscience, and little
to answer for, unless it be about a rant amang the lasses, or a splore
at a fair, and that's no muckle to speak of. Though I say it mysell, I
am as quiet a lad and as peaceable--"

"And Dick Turnbull's head that you broke, and Willie of Winton whom you
shot at?" said his travelling companion.

"Hout, Earnscliff, ye keep a record of a' men's misdoings--Dick's head's
healed again, and we're to fight out the quarrel at Jeddart, on the
Rood-day, so that's like a thing settled in a peaceable way; and then I
am friends wi' Willie again, puir chield--it was but twa or three hail
draps after a'. I wad let onybody do the like o't to me for a pint o'
brandy. But Willie's lowland bred, poor fallow, and soon frighted for
himsell--And, for the worricows, were we to meet ane on this very bit--"