It was his way to draw after him a throng of demented women, so that the poor, draggle-tailed creatures forgot husband and bairns and followed him among the mosses.
There were deeds of violence and blood to his name, and the look of him was enough to spoil a man's sleep.

He was about six and a half feet high, with a long, lean head and staring cheek bones.

His brows grew like bushes, and beneath glowed his evil and sunken eyes.

I remember that he had monstrous long arms, which hung almost to his knees, and a great hairy breast which showed through a rent in his seaman's jerkin.
In that strange place, with the dripping spell of night about me, and the fire casting weird lights and shadows, he seemed like some devil of the hills awakened by magic from his ancient grave.
But I saw it was time for me to be speaking up.
"I am neither gangrel, nor spy, nor Amalekite, nor yet am I Zebedee Linklater.

My name is Andrew Garvald, and I have to-day left my home to make my way to Edinburgh College.