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"Sit down, ma wee frien'," said Tam; "let ma take that gun away from ye before ye hairt yeersel' maircifu' Heavens!"
There was nawthing in sicht, nawthing to mar the glories of the morn. 'Can A' be mistaken? asks Tam. 'Noo! A thoosand times noo! an' wi' these fatefu' wairds, he began his peerilous climb. Maircifu' Heavens! What's yon? 'Tis the mad Muller! Sweeft as the eagle fa'ing upon his prey, fa's MacMuller, a licht o' joy in his een, his bullets twangin' like hairp-strings.
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