With some difficulty he
escaped with his life, but of all he possessed nothing remained to him
but his tools and a few articles of furniture that the widow had
saved.
As he was now again reduced to poverty, he was obliged to work as
diligently as in former years, and passed the rest of his days in the
same peace and prosperity which he had before enjoyed.
THE LAIRD AND THE MAN OF PEACE.
In the Highlands of Scotland there once lived a Laird of Brockburn,
who would not believe in fairies. Although his sixth cousin on the
mother's side, as he returned one night from a wedding, had seen the
Men of Peace hunting on the sides of Ben Muich Dhui, dressed in green,
and with silver-mounted bridles to their horses which jingled as they
rode; and though Rory the fiddler having gone to play at a christening
did never come home, but crossing a hill near Brockburn in a mist was
seduced into a _Shian_[1] or fairy turret, where, as all decent bodies
well believe, he is playing still--in spite, I say, of the wise saws
and experience of all his neighbours, Brockburn remained obstinately
incredulous.
[Footnote 1: _Shian_, a Gaelic name for fairy towers, which by day are
not to be told from mountain crags.]
Not that he bore any ill-will to the Good People, or spoke uncivilly
of them; indeed he always disavowed any feeling of disrespect towards
them if they existed, saying that he was a man of peace himself, and
anxious to live peaceably with whatever neighbours he had, but that
till he had seen one of the _Daoine Shi_[2] he could not believe in
them.
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