There shall never be coronach cried, or dirge played, for thee or thy bloody wolf-burd.

[Wolf-brood--that is, wolf-cub.] The ravens shall eat him from the gibbet, and the foxes and wild-cats shall tear thy corpse upon the hill.

Cursed be he that would sain [Bless.] your bones, or add a stone to your cairn!" "Daughter of a foolish mother," answered the widow of MacTavish Mhor, "know that the gibbet with which you threaten us is no portion of our inheritance.

For thirty years the Black Tree of the Law, whose apples are dead men's bodies, hungered after the beloved husband of my heart; but he died like a brave man, with the sword in his hand, and defrauded it of its hopes and its fruit." "So shall it not be with thy child, bloody sorceress," replied the female mourner, whose passions were as violent as those of Elspat herself.

"The ravens shall tear his fair hair to line their nests, before the sun sinks beneath the Treshornish islands." These words recalled to Elspat's mind the whole history of the last three dreadful days.