And she knew then that all the old stories were true, while they wheeled together, while they paused and rested, standing together so that they just touched, her hand touched his and his fingers closed on it, quick and glad—troubling fingers—Oh, all true that they’d sung in the olden times in this queer Scotland that had felt so alien, the dark, queer songs of lust and desire, of men and women and this daftness of love, dear daftness in soft Scotch speech, on Scotch lips—daftness like this that she felt for Ewan, and it didn’t matter what he thought or did, whatever he might do or say or believe, the glory of it would last her forever….

Jake cried A last one ere Ne’ersday comes. What’ll it be? and they cried back A reel!, all the chaps smiling by then to their queans, the queans that had lost their clipped, frightened looks, their distrusts of men and hands and lips, forgetting the dark and the cold outbye and those dreary dawns that haunted Duncairn, thinking only of touches kind and shy, weak faces they loved, a moment to snatch when all this was over, somewhere, anyhow—to hell with risk when you liked him so well! And they flushed at their thoughts and said flyting things; and all lined up for the last of the reels; and Jake crashed out the tune, walloping the drum till it boomed like a bittern, tankle the melodeon, tootle the flute, and off they all went. Round and faster and faster still, Ewan with Ellen and holding her so she was frightened and struggled a wild-bird moment, Ewan lost in a queer, cruel flame of wonder, desire, and—heart-breaking—a passion of pity. Play on, Jake, play on, never stop, Ellen and I, Ellen and I….

And far away Thomson Tower clanged midnight across the toun and into Long Hall, the long dark hall where the League had its dance; and Jake stopped in the middle of his clatter of playing and they all stopped and laughed the queans pulled at their dresses, and Tavendale stood with the schoolteacher close, close as though glued, jammed up against Alick and Norman and their queans; and Jake cried out Join hands—here’s New Year:

So here’s a hand, my trusty frere,

And here’s a hand o’ mine—

And Ellen wished the mist would go from her eyes; and then they’d all stopped and the music was done and queans were being pushed into their coats, and coddled, and everybody crying goodnight. A happy New Year! Goodnight, then, Εwan. Goodnight to your lass—what’s her name? —Ellen? Ta-ta, Ellen. And she cried Ta-ta, standing by Εwan, the mist quite gone, alive and tingling not heeding at all that some cried back Hell, it’s snowing like Bulgary!

They left Jake to lock up the hall and went out, snow sheeting down on the snow-rimed streets, all around the lighted wynds of Ne’ersday, first foots and greetings and drams poured in tumblers, the bairns crying Is’t time to get up? and their mothers, tired, happy, crying back to them: Mighty be here, get into your beds. You’ll get all your presents on New Year’s Day—