Thy wull's the beginnin' an' mids an' en' o' a' thing to me.

I'm wullin' eneuch to lat him gang, but he's Robert's pris'ner an' Gibbie's enemy; he's no my pris'ner an' no my enemy, an' I dinna think I hae the richt.

An' wha kens but he micht gang shottin' mair fowk yet, 'cause I loot him gang!--But he canna shot a hare wantin' thy wull, O Jesus, the Saviour o' man an' beast; an' ill wad I like to hae a han' i' the hangin' o' 'm.

He may deserve 't, Lord, I dinna ken; but I'm thinkin' ye made him no sae weel tempered--as my Robert, for enstance." Here her voice ceased, and she fell a moaning.
Her trouble was echoed in dim pain from Gibbie's soul.

That the prophetess who knew everything, the priestess who was at home in the very treasure-house of the great king, should be thus abandoned to dire perplexity, was a dreadful, a bewildering fact.