“I will delate you for a warlock to the Privy Council!” said Sir John.  “I will send you to your master, the devil, with the help of a tar-barrel and a torch!”

“I intend to delate mysell to the Presbytery,” said Steenie, “and tell them all I have seen last night, whilk are things fitter for them to judge of than a borrel man like me.”

Sir John paused, composed himsell, and desired to hear the full history; and my gudesire told it him from point to point, as I have told it you—­word for word, neither more nor less.

Sir John was silent again for a long time, and at last he said, very composedly, “Steenie, this story of yours concerns the honour of many a noble family besides mine; and if it be a leasing-making, to keep yourself out of my danger, the least you can expect is to have a red-hot iron driven through your tongue, and that will be as bad as scaulding your fingers with a redhot chanter.  But yet it may be true, Steenie; and if the money cast up, I shall not know what to think of it.—­But where shall we find the Cat’s Cradle?  There are cats enough about the old house, but I think they kitten without the ceremony of bed or cradle.”

“We were best ask Hutcheon,” said my gudesire; “he kens a’ the odd corners about as weel as—­another serving-man that is now gane, and that I wad not like to name.”

Aweel, Hutcheon, when he was asked, told them, that a ruinous turret, lang disused, next to the clock-house, only accessible by a ladder, for the opening was on the outside, and far above the battlements, was called of old the Cat’s Cradle.

“There will I go immediately,” said Sir John; and he took (with what purpose, Heaven kens) one of his father’s pistols from the hall-table, where they had lain since the night he died, and hastened to the battlements.

It was a dangerous place to climb, for the ladder was auld and frail, and wanted ane or twa rounds.  However, up got Sir John, and entered at the turret door, where his body stopped the only little light that was in the bit turret.  Something flees at him wi’ a vengeance, maist dang him back ower—­bang gaed the knight’s pistol, and Hutcheon, that held the ladder, and my gudesire that stood beside him, hears a loud skelloch.  A minute after, Sir John flings the body of the jackanape down to them, and cries that the siller is fund, and that they should come up and help him.  And there was the bag of siller sure aneugh, and mony orra things besides, that had been missing for mony a day.  And Sir John, when he had riped the turret weel, led my gudesire into the dining-parlour, and took him by the hand, and spoke kindly to him, and said he was sorry he should have doubted his word, and that he would hereafter be a good master to him, to make amends.