peat-stack had tumbled bodily into the great "black peat-hole"
from which the winter's peats had come, and which was a favourite
lair of Jock's own, being ankle-deep in fragrant dry peat "coom"--
which is, strange to say, a perfectly clean and even a luxurious
bedding, far to be preferred as a couch to "flock" or its kindred
abominations.

All the party ran forward to see what had become of Jock, whose
song had come to so swift a close.

Out of the black mass of down-fallen peat there came a strange,
pleading voice.

"O guid deil, O kind deil, dinna yirk awa' puir Jock to that ill
bit--puir Jock, that never yet did ye ony hairm, but aye wished ye
weel! Lat me aff this time, braw deil, an' I'll sing nae mair ill
gangs aboot ye!"

"Save us!" exclaimed Meg Kissock, "the craitur's prayin' to the
Ill Body himsel'."

Ebbie Farrish began to clear away the peat, which was, indeed, no
difficult task. As he did so, the voice of Jock Gordon mounted
higher and higher:

"O mercy me, I hear them clawin' and skrauchelin'! Dinna let the
wee yins wi' the lang riven taes and the nebs like gleds [beaks
like kites] get haud o' me! I wad rayther hae yersel', Maister o'
Sawtan, for ye are a big mensefu' deil. Ouch! I'm dune for noo,
althegither; he haes gotten puir Jock! Sirce me, I smell the