The hills in the west were all gold and purple in the last rays of the dying sun, and the heather was indescribably beautiful.
But by the time we reached the moorlands at the foot of the hills the sun and the licht were clean gone awa', and the darkness was closing down fast aboot us.

We could hear the cry of the whaup, a mournful, plaintive note; our own voices were the only other sounds that broke the stillness.

Then, suddenly, our host bent low and loosed his dogs, after whispering to them, and they were off as silently and as swiftly as ghosts in the heather.
We realized then what sort of fun it was we had been promised.

And it was grand sport, that hunting in the darkness, wi' the wee dogs comin' back faithfully, noo and then, to their master, carrying a hare or a rabbit firmly in their mouths.
"Man, Mae, but this is grand sport!" I whispered.
"Aye!" he said, and turned to the owner of the dogs.
"I envy you," he said.

"It must be grand to hae a moor like this, wi' dogs and guns." "And the keepers," I suggested.
"Aye--there's keepers enow, and stern dells they are, too!" Will ye no picture Mac and me, hangin' on to one anither's hands in the darkness, and feelin' the other tremble, each guilty one o' us?
So it was poachin' we'd been, and never knowing it! I saw a licht across the moor.
"What's yon ?" I asked our host, pointing to it.
"Oh, that's a keeper's hoose," he answered, indifferently.