The man in the moon is a native of Thrums, who was put up there for hacking¹ sticks on the Sabbath, and as he sails over the Den² his interest in the bit placey is still sufficient to make him bend forward and cry "Boo!" at the lovers. When they jump apart you can see the aged³ reprobate⁴ grinning. Once out of sight of the den, he cares not a boddle how the moon travels, but the masterful crittur enrages⁵ him if she is in a hurry here, just as he is cleverly making out whose children's children are courting now. "Slow, there!" he cries to the moon, but she answers placidly⁶ that they have the rest of the world to view to-night. "The rest of the world be danged!" roars the man, and he cranes his neck for a last glimpse of the Cuttle Well, until he nearly falls out of the moon.  
Never had the man such a trying time as during the year now before him. It was the year when so many scientific magnates sat up half the night in their shirts, spying at him through telescopes. But every effort to discover why he was in such a fidget failed, because the spy-glasses were never levelled at the Thrums den. Through the whole of the incidents now to tell, you may conceive the man (on whom sympathy would be wasted) dagoning horribly, because he was always carried past the den before he could make head or tail of the change that had come over it.
 
The spot chosen by the ill-fated Stuart and his gallant⁸ remnant for their last desperate enterprise was eminently⁹ fitted for their purpose. Being round the corner from Thrums, it was commanded by no fortified¹⁰ place save the farm of Nether¹¹ Drumgley, and on a recent goustie night nearly all the trees had been blown down, making a hundred hiding-places for bold climbers, and transforming the Den into a scene of wild and mournful grandeur¹². In no bay more suitable than the flooded field called the Silent Pool could the hunted prince have cast anchor, for the Pool is not only sheltered from observation, but so little troubled by gales¹³ that it had only one drawback: at some seasons of the year it was not there. This, however, did not vex¹⁴ Stroke, as it is cannier¹⁵ to call him, for he burned his boats on the night he landed (and a dagont, tedious job it was too), and pointed¹⁶ out to his followers¹⁷ that the drouth which kept him in must also keep the enemy out. Part of the way to the lair¹⁸ they usually traversed in the burn, because water leaves no trace, and though they carried turnip¹⁹ lanterns and were armed to the teeth, this was often a perilous²⁰ journey owing to the lovers close at hand on the pink path, from which the trees had been cleared, for lads and lasses must walk whate'er betide. Ronny-On's Jean and Peter Scrymgeour, little Lisbeth Doak and long Sam'l from Pyotdykes were pairing that year, and never knew how near they were to being dirked by Corp of Corp, who, lurking²¹ in the burn till there were no tibbits in his toes, muttered fiercely, "Cheep one single cheep, and it will be thy hinmost, methinks!" under the impression that Methinks was a Jacobite oath.
 
For this voluntary service, Stroke clapped Corp of Corp on the shoulder with a naked sword, and said, "Rise, Sir Joseph!" which made Corp more confused than ever, for he was already Corp of Corp, Him of Muckle Kenny, Red McNeil, Andrew Ferrara, and the Master of Inverquharity (Stroke's names), as well as Stab-in-the-Dark, Grind-them-to-Mullins, and Warty²³ Joe (his own), and which he was at any particular moment he never knew, till Stroke told him, and even then he forgot and had to be put in irons.
 
The other frequenters of the lair on Saturday nights (when alone the rebellion was active) were the proud Lady Grizel and Widow Elspeth. It had been thought best to make Elspeth a widow, because she was so religious.
 
The lair was on the right bank of the burn, near the waterfall, and you climbed to it by ropes, unless you preferred an easier way. It is now a dripping hollow, down which water dribbles²⁴ from beneath a sluice²⁵, but at that time it was hidden on all sides by trees and the huge clods of sward they had torn from the earth as they fell. Two of these clods were the only walls of the lair, which had at times a ceiling not unlike Aaron Latta's bed coverlets, and the chief furniture was two barrels, marked "Usquebach" and "Powder." When the darkness of Stroke's fortunes sat like a pall²⁶ upon his brow, as happened sometimes, he sought to drive it away by playing cards on one of these barrels with Sir Joseph, but the approach of the Widow made him pocket them quickly with a warning sign to his trusty knight²⁷, who did not understand, and asked what had become of them, whereupon Elspeth cried, in horror:
 
"Cards! Oh, Tommy, you promised—"
 
But Stroke rode her down with, "Cards! Wha has been playing cards? You, Muckle Kenny, and you, Sir Joseph, after I forbade it! Hie, there, Inverquharity, all of you, seize those men."
 
Then Corp blinked, came to his senses and marched himself off to the prison on the lonely promontory²⁸ called the Queen's Bower²⁹, saying ferociously³⁰, "Jouk, Sir Joseph, and I'll blaw you into posterity³¹."
 
It is sable³² night when Stroke and Sir Joseph reach a point in the Den whence the glimmering³³ lights of the town are distinctly visible. Neither speaks. Presently the distant eight-o'clock bell rings, and then Sir Joseph looks anxiously at his warts³⁴, for this is the signal to begin, and as usual he has forgotten the words.
 
"Go on," says someone in a whisper. It cannot be Stroke, for his head is brooding on his breast. This mysterious voice haunted all the doings in the Den, and had better be confined in brackets.
 
("Go on.")
 
"Methinks," says Sir Joseph, "methinks the borers—"
 
("Burghers.")
 
"Methinks the burghers now cease from their labors³⁵."
 
"Ay," replied Stroke, "'tis so, would that they ceased from them forever!"
 
"Methinks the time is at hand."
 
"Ha!" exclaims Stroke, looking at his lieutenant³⁶ curiously³⁷, "what makest thou say so? For three weeks these fortifications have defied my cannon³⁸, there is scarce a breach³⁹ yet in the walls of yonder town."
 
"Methinks thou wilt⁴⁰ find a way."
 
"It may be so, my good Sir Joseph, it may be so, and yet, even when I am most hopeful of success, my schemes go a gley."
 
"Methinks thy dark—"
 
("Dinna say Methinks so often.")
 
("Tommy, I maun. If I dinna get that to start me off, I go through other.")
 
("Go on.")
 
"Methinks thy dark spirit lies on thee to-night."
 
"Ay, 'tis too true. But canst thou blame me if I grow sad? The town still in the enemy's hands, and so much brave blood already spilt in vain. Knowest thou that the brave Kinnordy fell last night? My noble Kinnordy!"
 
Here Stroke covers his face with his hands, weeping silently, and—and there is an awkward pause.
 
("Go on—'Still have me.'")
 
("So it is.") "Weep not, my royal scone—"
 
("Scion⁴¹.")
 
"Weep not, my royal scion, havest thou not still me?"
 
"Well said, Sir Joseph," cries Stroke, dashing the sign of weakness from his face. "I still have many brave fellows, and with their help I shall be master of this proud town."
 
"And then ghost we to fair Edinburgh?"
 
"Ay, 'tis so, but, Sir Joseph, thinkest thou these burghers love the Stuart not?"
 
"'Nay⁴², methinks they are true to thee, but their starch⁴³ commander—(give me my time, this is a lang ane,) but their arch commander is thy bitterest foe⁴⁴. Vile⁴⁵ spoon that he is! (It's no spoon, it's spawn⁴⁶.)"
 
"Thou meanest the craven Cathro?"
 
"Methinks ay. (I like thae short anes.)"
 
"'Tis well!" says Stroke, sternly. "That man hath ever slipped between me and my right. His time will come."
 
"He floppeth thee—he flouteth thee from the battlements."
 
"Ha, 'tis well!"
 
("You've said that already.")
 
("I say it twice.")
 
("That's what aye puts me wrang.) Ghost thou to meet the proud Lady Grizel to-night?"
 
"Ay."
 
"Ghost thou alone?"
 
"Ay."
 
("What easy anes you have!) I fear it is not chancey for thee to go."
 
"I must dree my dreed."
 
"These women is kittle cattle."
 
"The Stuart hath ever a soft side for them. A............