"Death to man and beast," he grunted. "I hae got the sheep doun frae the
hill, but the lambs will never thole this. We maun pray that it will no
last."
His sister came in with some dish. "Margit," he cried, "three lambs
away this morning, and three deid wi' the hole in the throat."
The woman's face visibly paled. "Guid help us, Adam; that hasna happened
this three year."
"It has happened noo," he said, surlily. "But, by God! if it happens
again I'll gang mysel' to the Scarts o' the Muneraw."
"O Adam!" the woman cried shrilly, "haud your tongue. Ye kenna wha hears
ye." And with a frightened glance at me she left the room.
I asked no questions, but waited till the shepherd's anger should cool.
But the cloud did not pass so lightly. When he had finished his dinner
he pulled his chair to the fire and sat staring moodily. He made some
sort of apology to me for his conduct. "I'm sore troubled, sir; but I'm
vexed ye should see me like this. Maybe things will be better the morn."
And then, lighting his short black pipe, he resigned himself to his
meditations.
But he could not keep quiet. Some nervous unrest seemed to have
possessed the man. He got up with a start and went to the window, where
the snow was drifting unsteadily past. As he stared out into the storm I
heard him mutter to himself, "Three away, God help me, and three wi'
the hole in the throat."
Then he turned round to me abruptly. I was jotting down notes for an
article I contemplated in the 'Revue Celtique,' so my thoughts were far
away from the present. The man recalled me by demanding fiercely, "Do ye
believe in God?"