Next day David returned to the manse in time for the noontide meal. He was greeted by Isobel with a hospitable bustle, in which was apparent a certain relief. She had known of the Lammas festival; she guessed, no doubt, that David too was aware of it, and she evidently took his visit to Newbiggin as a sign that he had at last taken her prudent counsel. But from her master she got no response. When questioned as to the welfare of his kin at Newbiggin he answered in civil monosyllables, ate his dinner in silence, and thereafter secluded himself in his study.

That evening he walked to the Greenshiel, where Reiverslaw and Prentice met him. The former was in an excited state and had clearly been drinking — to the scandal of the two shepherds, who wore portentous faces. Richie Smail had the air of an honest man compelled to walk in abhorred paths; he had been reading his Bible before their arrival, and sat with a finger in the leaves, saying nothing, but now and then lifting puzzled eyes to his master. Prentice’s hard jaw was set, and he swung his crutch as if it had been a pikestaff.

“We were at Chasehope by eleven hours this mornin’,” Reiverslaw announced. “I took Richie and Rab, as I forewarned Ephraim, to have a look at his new tups. But I needna tell you there was nae word of Ephraim. The wife said he was awa’ to Kirk Aller, but she was like a hen on a het girdle a’ the time, and I think we wad hae found him if we had ripit the press-beds. If he was lurking there he maun hae gotten a sair fricht, for I spak’ that loud ye could hae heard me on the tap o’ Chasehope hill.”

“Did you find what you sought?” David asked.

“I fand eneuch.” He drew from a pocket a bunch of feathers. “I got these last nicht in the Wud. Doubtless there’ll be mair in the same place, if they havena been soopit up. But there’s nae red cock the day in the toun o’ Chasehope. I admired the wife’s hens and speired what had become o’ the cock, and was telled that it was deid — chokit last nicht on a grosart. I ken the kind o’ grosart that ended the puir beast.”

“And the aniseed?”

Reiverslaw laughed tipsily.

“We were just in time, sir. The wife had a fire lowin’ in the yaird. ‘What’s burnin’, mistress?’ says I. ‘Just some auld clouts,’ says she. ‘There was a gangrel body sleepit ae nicht in the loft,’ says she, ‘and he left some duds ahint him, as fu’ o’ fleas as a cadger’s bonnet. I’m haein’ them brunt,’ says she, ‘for fear o’ the weans.’ Weel, me and Richie and Rab stood aside the fire, and it loupit as if an oil can had been skailed on it, and the reek that rase frae it was just the reek o’ my wee bottle. Mair nor that, there was a queer smell ayont the hallin — Richie and Rab fand it as weel as me. What name wad ye gie it, Rab?”

“It was the stink o’ the stuff ye showed us in this house last nicht,” said Prentice solemnly.

“Sae muckle for that,” said Reiverslaw. “We’ve proof that the lad in the dowg’s cap was nae ither than him we ken o’. Na, na, I never let on to the wife. I was jokesome and daffin’ wi’ her, and made a great crack o’ the tups, and praised a’ I saw about the toun, and Rab and Richie were as wise as judges. I had a dram inside me, and was just my canty ordinar’. But my een and my nostrils werena idle, and I saw what I’ve telled ye. . . . My heid was in sic a thraw last nicht that I canna sweir wi’ ony certainty to ither faces, though I hae my suspeecions about the weemen. But you, sir, sittin’ aloft on the tree-tap, ye maun hae had a graund view, for there was licht eneuch to read prent.”

“I recognized certain women, to whom I can swear on my oath. About some I dare not be positive, but there were five of whom I have no doubt. There were Jean Morison and her daughter Jess.”

“The folk o’ the Chasehope-fit,” Reiverslaw cried. “Ay, they wad be there. They’ve aye been ill-regarded.”

“And old Alison Geddie in the kirkton.”

“A daft auld wife, that skellochs like a sea-maw!”

“And Eppie Lauder from Mirehope road-end.”

Richie Smail groaned. “The widow of a tried Christian, Mr. Sempill. A dacenter body than Wattie Lauder never walked the roads. It’s terrible to think o’ the Deil’s grip on the household o’ faith.”

“And Bessie Tod from the Mains.”

“Peety on us, but I sat neist her at the March fast-day when Mr. Proudfoot preached, and she was granin’ and greetin’ like a bairn. Ye surely maun be in error, sir. Bessie was never verra strong in the heid, and she hasna the wits for the Deil’s wark!”

“Nevertheless she was there. I am as certain of it as that I was myself in the tree-top. Of others I have suspicions, but of these five I have certainty.”

Reiverslaw rubbed his great hands. “Our business gangs cannily forward. We’ve gotten the names o’ six o’ the coven and can guess at ithers. Man, we’ll hae a riddlin’ in Woodilee that will learn the folk no to be ill bairns. Ye’ll be for namin’ them frae the pu’pit, sir?”

“I must first bring the matter before the Presbytery. I will prepare my dittay, and bring it before Mr. Muirhead of Kirk Aller as the Presbytery’s moderator, and I must be guided by him as to the next step. It is a matter for the courts of the Kirk and presently for the secular law.”

Reiverslaw cried out. “What for maun ye gang near the Presbytery? If ye stir up yon byke ye’ll hae commissioners of justiciary and prickers and the haill clamjamphrie, and in the lang end an auld kimmer or twa will suffer, and the big malefactors will gang scot free. Chasehope’s ower near the lug o’ the law to tak’ ony scaith, and yon’s the kail-worm I wad be at. Be guidit by me, Mr. Sempill, and keep the thing inside the pairish. As the auld saying gangs, bleach your warst hanks in your ain yaird, for I tell ye if the Kirk and the Law hae the redding o’t it’s little justice will be done. Name and upbraid and denounce a’ and sindry, but dinna delate to the Presbytery. A man may like the kirk weel eneuch, and no be aye ridin’ on the riggin’ o’t. . . . I’ll tell ye my way o’t. Now that we ken some o’ the coven, the four o’ us can keep our een open, and watch them as a dowg watches a ratton; and at their next Sabbath, as they ca’ it, we’ll be ready for them. I can get a wheen Moffat drovers that fear neither man nor deil, and aiblins some o’ Laird Hawkshaw’s folk frae Calidon, and we’ll break in on their coven and tear the masks frae the men, and rub their nebs in their ain mire, and dook the lot in the Water o’ Aller. I’ll wager that’s the way to get rid o’ witchcraft frae the parochine, for we’ll mak’ it an unco painfu’ business to tak’ the Wud. A witch or a warlock is a fearsome thing to the mind o’ man, but they’re bye wi’t gin we mak’ them gowks and laughing-stocks.”

The two shepherds stared at the speaker with upbraiding eyes, and David’s face looked as if a blasphemy had been spoken.

“You would fight the Devil in your own carnal strength,” he said sadly. “It’s little you would make of it. You talk as if this wickedness of the Wood were but a natural human prank, when it is black sin that can only be combated by the spirit of God and such weapons as God has expressly ordained. Man, man, Reiverslaw, you’ve but a poor notion of the power of the Adversary. I tell you last night I was trembling like a weaned child before yon blast that blew out of Hell, and you yourself were no better when I found you here. I durstna have entered the Wood except as a soldier of the Lord.”

Reiverslaw laughed.

“I was sair fleyed [frightened], I’ll no deny, but I got a juster view o’ things wi’ the daylicht.”

“It would appear that you got courage also from Lucky Weir.”

“True. I had my mornin’ and my meridian and an orra stoup or twa sinsyne. I’m a man that’s aye been used wi’ a guid allowance o’ liquor. But the drink, if so be ye’re no fou, whiles gi’es ye a great clearness, and I counsel ye, sir, to keep wide o’ the law, whether it be of the Kirk or the State. It’s a kittle thing, and him that invokes it is like to get the redder’s straik [the peacemaker’s blow]. It’s like a horse that flings its heels when ye mount and dings out the rider’s teeth. . . . But hae your ain way o’t, and dinna blame me if it’s a fashious way. There’s me and Rab Prentice and Richie Smail waitin’ to sweir to what’s in our knowledge, and if there’s mair speirin’ to be done in the Wud, I’ll no fail ye. But keep in mind, Mr. Sempill, that I’m a thrang body, and maun be drawin’ my crocks and sellin’ my hog-lambs afore the back-end, and it’s like I’ll hae to traivel to Dumfries, and maybe to Carlisle. Richie will aye hae word o’ my doings, and if ye want me it wad be wise to tell Richie a week afore.”

That night on his return David summoned Isobel to his presence. The housekeeper appeared with a more cheerful countenance than she had worn for weeks, but the minister’s first words solemnized her.

“Isobel Veitch, I asked you a question after Beltane and you refused me an answer. I, your minister, besought your aid as a confessing Christian, and you denied it me. I told you that I would not rest until I had rooted the idolatry of the Wood from this parish. Since then I have not been idle, and I have found men who did not fail me. Three days back I rode to Newbiggin, as I told you, but I returned on Lammas Eve, and on Lammas Eve I was a witness a second time to the abominations of the heathen. Not only myself, but another with me, so that the thing is established out of the mouths of two witnesses, while Robert Prentice and Richard Smail can speak in part to confirm me. Now I have got my tale complete, and it is to the Presbytery that I shall tell it. Will you implement it with such knowledge as you possess, or do you continue stiff in your recusancy?”

The old woman’s eyes opened like an owl’s.

“Wha went with you — wha was sae left to himsel’?” she gasped.

“Andrew Shillinglaw in Reiverslaw. . . . One man and five women stand arraigned on our witness. I will speak their names, and I care not if you put it through the parish, for soon the names will be thundered from the pulpit. The man was Ephraim Caird.”

“I’ll no believe it,” she cried. “Chasehope’s aye been a polished shaft in Christ’s kirk. . . . He’s o’ your ain Session. . . . He cam’ here, ye mind, when ye first broke bread in this house. Ay, and he was here when ye were awa’ at Newbiggin. I was seilin’ the milk when I heard his voice at the door — cam’ here wi’ ane o’ his wife’s skim-milk kebbucks that she kens weel how to mak’, for she’s frae the Wastlands — spoke sae kind and neeborlike, and was speirin’ after the health o’ the gude man my maister . . . Tak’ it back, sir, for ye maun be mistook. Ephraim’s weel kenned for a fair Nathaniel.”

There was no doubt about her honesty, for the mention of Chasehope had staggered her.

“Nevertheless he is a whited sepulchre, painted without, but inside full of bones and rottenness.”

“Oh, sir, bethink ye afore ye mak’ this fearsome accusation. Your een may have played ye fause. And wha in their senses wad lippen to Reiverslaw? A muckle, black-avised, grippy incomer that nae man kens the get o’ . . . sweirs like a dragoon when the maut’s abune the meat. Ye’ll never gang to the Presbytery in siccan company wi’ siccan a tale! And Hirplin’ Rab is a thrawn deevil, though I’ll no deny he hae a gift o’ prayer — and Richie Smail is sair failed in body and mind since last back-end when Mirren dee’d.”

“There are also five women,” David went on. “There are Jean and Jess Morison from Chasehope-foot.”

“Sae that’s where ye get your ill-will at Chasehope — because he’s ower kind to turn twa randies intil the road! I hae nothing to say for the Morisons. They come oot o’ a dirty nest, and they may ride on a saugh ilka nicht to Norroway for a’ I ken.”

“There is Eppie Lauder at Mirehope.”

“Tut, man, as dacent a body as ever boiled sowens. And her man, Wattie, that dee’d in Aprile o’ the year thretty-nine, was weel thocht o’ by a’body. Ye’ve come till a frem’d toun wi’ Eppie.”

“And Alison Geddie.”

“A tongue like a bell-clapper, but ettles nae hairm.”

“Likewise Bessie Tod of the Mains.”

“She’s weak in her mind, sir. Lang syne she had a bairn to a sodger and it dee’d, and she never got ower it. Ye’ll no convince me that there’s ony ill in Bessie forbye the want o’ sense.”

“I have evidence of ill. I accuse, I do not condemn. It is for others to do the judging.”

Isobel’s timidity, which had been notable during the Beltane interview, seemed now to have left her. There was a sincere emotion in her voice.

“I plead wi’ ye, sir, to halt while yet there’s time, and if needs be content yoursel’ wi’ private examination. It’s verra weel for Andra Shillinglaw, that’s but an incomer, and rakes the country gettin’ as he gangs, like a cadger’s powny. But you’re the minister o’ Woodilee, and the fair fame o’ the parochine suld be as dear to you as your ain. If ye tak’ the gait ye speak o’, ye’ll mak’ it a hissing and a reproach in a’ the water of Aller. It’s a quiet bien bit, wi’ douce folk weel agreed, and ye wad mak’ it a desolation, and a’ because some daft lads............