"A blessing on your precious face!" she cried. "Twa joes {7}
o'mine: just two 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 to see too far in front."

"I read it in your bree," she said. "There's a bonnie lassie that
has bricht een, and there's a wee man in a braw coat, and a big man
in a pouthered wig, and there's the shadow of the wuddy, {10} joe,
that lies braid across your path. Gie's your loof, hinny, and let
Auld Merren spae it to ye bonny."

The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan and the daughter
of James More struck me hard; and I fled from the eldritch
creature, casting her a baubee, which she continued to sit and play
with under the moving shadows of the hanged.