 particular, laughed with a "Ha-ha-ha!" so loud that he made all the woods around to ring, and at every breath exclaimed, "Gude faith, I never saw ought half so grand! Na, never!" Gibbie was advanced a little before the rest, so as to be near the scene of action, which, without doubt, was bringing him in mind of some excellent story, for his mouth was formed like a seam from the one ear to the other. But it is dangerous putting one's self too forward in life, and that the poor laird of the Peatstacknowe soon found. It is well known that between parties so closely connected as the horse and his rider, passion begets passion. The mule, driven altogether furious by the broil, and the rage and spurs of his master, either wished to rub himself rid of him, or deemed that it was to be a battle general; for he no sooner rushed from one fray than he flew to another, quite open-mouthed on Gibbie, and, seizing him by the thigh, he separated one limb of his buffskin breeches and a mouthful[338] of the laird's own skin from their places, in one moment, and the next had his teeth fixed in the flank of the laird's horse. Gibbie cried out against the friar, irritated by pain, as well as the awkward and dangerous situation in which he was thus momently placed. His horse flung—the mule returned the compliment with hearty good will, and glad was Gibbie to escape, which he did with great celerity as soon as he got leisure to use the spurs. The mule ran straight at the next horse, and then at the next again, but all of them scampered off at his approach, and left him master of the field; on which he turned two or three times sullenly round, throwing himself up behind and down before. The friar's wrath was somewhat diverted by the shouts of laughter from his scattered compeers, and he only smiled grimly as he said to his contumacious beast,—"Thou art even a perverse and an evil one; nevertheless thou hast been to me a beast for these many years, and hast borne me in distant pilgrimages, through many perils and dangers; and I will not act the part of the son of[339] Bosor: peradventure thou mayest amend thy ways and do some credit to old age."
The laird in his escape gallopped by the forlorn poet; who, raising up his head, and perceiving the plight of the dismayed and unoffensive wight, scouring off
