Na, na, it was the laird himsel' 'at the maisier killt--the father o' the present laird, I'm thinkin'.

What aged-man micht he be--did ye ever hear tell ?" "He's a man well on to seventy," answered Cosmo, with a pang at the thought.
"Ay; that'll be aboot it! There can be no doobt it was his father oor lord killt--an' as little 'at efter he did it he gaed doon the braid ro'd to the deevil as fest's ever he cud rin.

It was jist like as wi' Judas--he maun gang till's ain.

Some said he had sellt himsel' to the deevil, but I'm thinkin' that wasna necessar'.

He was to get him ony gait! An' wad ye believe't, it's baith said and believt--'at he cam by's deith i' some exterordnar w'y, no accoontable for, but plainly no canny.