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Updated: June 11, 2025
Mrs Stirling was standing at the door, with her water-bucket in her hand, as Lilias came in sight that Saturday afternoon. "Eh! yon's Lilias Elder coming up the hill. What can bring her here? I don't know the day when I have seen her so far from home. Eh, but she's a bonny, genteel little lassie! There's no doubt of that."
Wouldn't you like to go yourself?" "That I would," said the old lady eagerly, "that I would. But I doubt it's not for me. But yon's a man." "Yes," cried Helen enthusiastically, "he is a man to follow. Of course, it was a strange sermon for a church those stories of his, I mean, and all those figures about coal beds and gold and cattle.
"Yon's where the men are, Dad!" he said to me, just before he started. John's mother, his sweetheart and I all saw him off at Glasgow. The fear was in all our hearts, and I think it must have been in all our eyes, as well the fear that every father and mother and sweetheart in Britain shared with us in these days whenever they saw a boy off for France and the trenches. Was it for the last time?
Whilst I looked about me here, the policeman pointed to the distance and said, "Jackson's comin' up, I see. Yon's him, wi' th' white lin' jacket on." Jackson seems to have won the esteem of the men upon the moor by his judicious management and calm determination.
"She's gibberin' she's just gibberin'," he whimpered. "Yon's the voice of a maniac. And if engines have any soul, as their masters believe, he was quite right. There were outcries and clamours, sobs and bursts of chattering laughter, silences where the trained ear yearned for the clear note, and torturing reduplications where there should have been one deep voice.
Then as they strove together panting and cursing I rose to come at them; but the wounded man, chancing to lift his head, saw me where I stood, the moonlight on my bloody face, and uttered a hoarse scream. "Death!" cries he, "'Tis on us mates look, look yonder! Death and wounds yonder he comes for all of us O mates look! Yon's death for all on us!"
If yon's the policy of Courts, heaven help princes!" "And yet you were very humble when you entered," I protested. "Was I that?" he retorted. "That's easy to account for. Did you ever feel like arguing with a gentleman when you had on your second-best clothes and no ruffle?
Lord! yon's a wife who would be nane the waur o' a leatherin', as they say in the south. Well, she took the goodman to the castle, though a dumb dog he is among gentrice, and the trip must have been little to his taste. I waited and better waited, and I might have been waiting for his home-coming yet, for it's candle-light to the top flat of MacCailen's tower and the harp in the hall.
"Man," he whispered, "I've got them back although I have touched nothing for weeks, only this time they are lovely. For yon's no human lady, I feel it in my bones." Umslopogaas stood great and grim, his hands resting on the handle of his tall axe; and he stared also, the blood pulsing against the skin that covered the hole in his head.
It was in a cemetery, by some strange chance, immured within the bulwarks of a prison; standing, besides, on the margin of a cliff, crowded with elderly stone memorials, and green with turf and ivy. "I wanted ye to see the place," said he. "Yon's the stane. Euphemia Ross: that was my goodwife, your grandmither hoots!
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