When the waves were anyway great they roared about the rock like thunder and the drums of armies, dreadful but merry to hear; and it was in the calm days that a man could daunt himself with listening--not a Highlandman only, as I several times experimented on myself, so many still, hollow noises haunted and reverberated in the porches of the rock.
This brings me to a story I heard, and a scene I took part in, which quite changed our terms of living, and had a great effect on my departure.

It chanced one night I fell in a muse beside the fire and (that little air of Alan's coming back to my memory) began to whistle.

A hand was laid upon my arm, and the voice of Neil bade me to stop, for it was not "canny musics." "Not canny ?" I asked.

"How can that be ?" "Na," said he; "it will be made by a bogle and her wanting ta heid upon his body."[13] "Well," said I, "there can be no bogles here, Neil; for it's not likely they would fash themselves to frighten solan geese." "Ay ?" says Andie, "is that what ye think of it?
But I'll can tell ye there's been waur nor bogles here." "What's waur than bogles, Andie ?" said I.
"Warlocks," said he.

"Or a warlock at the least of it.