“I will, will I?” Royde grunted sceptically, raising a fat crimson face already considerably increased in bulk by the attentions of the cloud of gnats and midges which hovered above his head in a satanic aureole.

“Keep your head down, Royde. Keep your head down,” Ben Nevis adjured him. “It’s going to rain pretty hard soon and then you won’t be bothered at all by the midges. This flat is called Ackernercallick, which means the field of the old woman.”

“You can’t tell me any woman lived to be old in this piece of country,” Royde said emphatically.

“She was a witch,” Ben Nevis recounted. “That’s right, isn’t it, Duncan?”

“Ay, she was a bad witch right enough. She would be flying out here by the light of the moon and doing all sorts of devilment on her neighbours.”

“She couldn’t have had many neighbours around here,” Royde put in.

“No, no, but she would be flying from here down into Glenbogle and away over down into Strathdiddle and Strathdun to be putting all kinds of illness into the cattle. She lived beside those stones. They call them Carn na Caillich to this day. And it was there that Donald shot her.”

“Take a breather for a moment, Royde, while Duncan finishes his tale,” Ben Nevis advised.

“I’d enjoy my breath more if half the flies around here didn’t follow it into my mouth,” said Royde.

“Don’t worry about the flies. They’ll clear off when it rains. Go on, Duncan, tell Mr Royde the story of Donald Cam.”