Catriona. Robert Louis Stevenson

I asked, and pointed to the corpses.

      ‘A blessing on your precious face!’ she cried. ‘Twa joes o’ mine: just twa o’ my old joes, my hinny dear.’

      ‘What did they suffer for?’ I asked.

      ‘Ou, just for the guid cause,’ said she. ‘Aften I spaed to them the way that it would end. Twa shillin’ Scots: no pickle mair; and there are twa bonny callants hingin’ for ’t! They took it frae a wean belanged to Brouchton.’

      ‘Ay!’ said I to myself, and not to the daft limmer, ‘and did they come to such a figure for so poor a business? This is to lose all indeed.’

      ‘Gie’s your loof, hinny,’ says she, ‘and let me spae your weird to ye.’

      ‘No, mother,’ said Ι, ‘I see far enough the way I am. It’s an unco thing to see too far in front.’

      ‘I read it in your bree,’ she said. ‘There’s a bonnie lassie that has bricht een, and there’s a wee man in a braw. coat, and a big man in a pouthered wig, and there’s the shadow of the wuddy, joe, that lies braid across your path. Gie’s your loof, hinny, and let Auld Merren spae it to ye bonny.’

      The two chance shots that seemed to point at Alan and the daughter of James More, struck me hard; and I fled from the eldritch creature, casting her a baubee, which she continued to sit and play with under the moving shadows of the hanged.

      My way down the causeway of Leith Walk would have been more pleasant to me but for this encounter. The old rampart ran among fields, the like of them I had never seen for artfulness of agriculture; I was pleased, besides, to be so far in the still countryside; but the shackles of the gibbet clattered in my head; and the mops and mows of the old witch, and the thought of the dead men, hag-rode my spirits. To hang on a gallows, that seemed a hard case; and whether a man came to hang there for two shillings Scots, or (as Mr Stewart had it) from the sense of duty, once he was tarred and shackled and hung up, the difference seemed small. There might David Balfour hang, and other lads pass on their errands and think light of him; and old daft limmers sit at a leg-foot and spae their fortunes; and the clean genty maids go by, and look to the other side, and hold a nose. I saw them plain, and they had grey eyes, and their screens upon their heads were of the Drummond colours.

      I was thus in the poorest of spirits, though still pretty resolved, when I came in view of Pilrig, a pleasant gabled house set by the walkside among some brave young woods. The laird’s horse was standing saddled at the door as I came up, but himself was in the study, where he received me in the midst of learned works and musical instruments, for he was not only a deep philosopher but much of a musician. He greeted me at first pretty well, and when he had read Rankeillor’s letter, placed himself obligingly at my disposal.

      ‘And what is it, cousin David?’ says he—‘since it appears that we are cousins—what is this that I can do for you? A word to Prestongrange? Doubtless that is easily given. But what should be the word?’

      ‘Mr Balfour,’ said I, ‘if I were to tell you my whole story the way it fell out, it’s my opinion (and it was Rankeillor’s before me) that you would be very little made up with it.’

      ‘I am sorry to hear this of you, kinsman,’ says he.

      ‘I must not take that at your hands, Mr Balfour,’ said Ι; ‘I have nothing to my charge to make me sorry, or you for me, but just the common infirmities of mankind. “The guilt of Adam’s first sin, the want of original righteousness, and the corruption of my whole nature,” so much I must answer for, and I hope I have been taught where to look for help,’ I said; for I judged from the look of the man he would think the better of me if I knew my questions. ‘But in the way of worldly honour I have no great stumble to reproach myself with; and my difficulties have befallen me very much against my will and (by all that I can see) without my fault. My trouble is to have become dipped in a political complication, which it is judged you would be blythe to avoid a knowledge of.’

      ‘Why, very well, Mr David,’ he replied, ‘I am pleased to see you are all that Rankeillor represented. And for what you say of political complications, you do me no more than justice. It is my study to be beyond suspicion, and indeed outside the field of it. The question is,’ says he, ‘how, if I am to know nothing of the matter, I can very well assist you?’

      ‘Why, sir,’ said I, ‘I propose you should write to his lordship, that I am a young man of reasonable good family and of good means: both of which I believe to be the case.’

      ‘I have Rankeillor’s word for it,’ said Mr Balfour, ‘and I count that a warrandice against all deadly.’

      ‘To which you might add (if you will take my word for so much) that I am a good churchman, loyal to King George, and so brought up,’ I went on.

      ‘None of which will do you any harm,’ said Mr Balfour.

      ‘Then you might go on to say that I sought his lordship on a matter of great moment, connected with His Majesty’s service and the administration of justice,’ I suggested.

      ‘As I am not to hear the matter,’ says the laird, ‘I will not take upon myself to qualify its weight. “Great moment” therefore falls, and “moment” along with it. For the rest I might express myself much as you propose.’

      ‘And then, sir,’ said I, and rubbed my neck a little with my thumb, ‘then I would be very desirous if you could slip in a word that might perhaps tell for my protection.’

      ‘Protection?’ says he, ‘for your protection? Here is a phrase that somewhat dampens me. If the matter be so dangerous, I own I would be a little loath to move in it blindfold.’

      ‘I believe I could indicate in two words where the thing sticks,’ said I.

      ‘Perhaps that would be the best,’ said he.

      ‘Well, it’s the Appin murder,’ said I.

      He held up both the hands. ‘Sirs! sirs!’ cried he.

      I thought by the expression of his face and voice that I had lost my helper.

      ‘Let me explain …’ I began.

      ‘I thank you kindly, I will hear no more of it,’ says he. ‘I decline in toto to hear more of it. For your name’s sake and Rankeillor’s, and perhaps a little for your own, I will do what I can to help you; but I will hear no more upon the facts. And it is my first clear duty to warn you. These are deep waters, Mr David, and you are a young man. Be cautious and think twice.’

      ‘It is to be supposed I will have thought oftener than that, Mr Balfour,’ said I, ‘and I will direct your attention again to Rankeillor’s letter, where (I hope and believe) he has registered his approval of that which I design.’

      ‘Well, well,’ said he; and then again, ‘Well, well! I will do what I can for you.’ Therewith he took a pen and paper, sat awhile in thought, and began to write with much consideration. ‘I understand that Rankeillor approves of what you have in mind?’ he asked presently.

      ‘After some discussion, sir, he bade me to go forward in God’s name,’ said I.

      ‘That is the name to go in,’ said Mr Balfour, and resumed his writing. Presently, he signed, re-read what he had written, and addressed me again. ‘Now here, Mr David,’ said he, ‘is a letter of introduction, which I will seal without closing, and give into your hands open, as the form requires. But since I am acting in the dark, I will just read it to you, so that you may see if it will secure your end:

      Pilrig, August 26th,1751

      My Lord,—This is to bring to your notice my namesake and cousin, David Balfour Esquire of Shaws, a young gentleman of unblemished descent and good estate. He has enjoyed besides the more valuable advantages of a godly training, and his political principles are all that your lordship can desire. I am not in Mr Balfour’s confidence, but I understand him to have a matter to declare, touching