“Yes, as big as a walrus according to clan tradition. Well, this Hector of the Tusk as they called him was an absolute terror on the judgment-seat. He thought nothing of hanging or spearing or drowning or burning twenty or thirty felons in a day. And he had one very curious habit. When he’d condemned some felon to death he used to nick the back of his head with this tusk. I suppose the idea was to prevent confusion. I mean to say, there was nobody in those days to write down who’d been condemned and who hadn’t. But of course once these felons had been nicked with Hector’s tusk they were marked down for execution. The nick this tusk made was known as Mac ’ic Eachainn’s kiss. Pockvickickyackan in Gaelic. And the extraordinary thing is that to this day up in Strathdiddle if anybody gets a scar the people will say, ‘Hullo, I see Mac ’ic Eachainn’s been kissing you.’ Of course after the ’45, when the hereditary jurisdictions were abolished, the judgment-seat was never used. But I thought it would be the appropriate place to try any hikers we catch.”

“Pity you haven’t got a tusk like your ancestor, Ben Nevis,” said Chester Royde. “I’d give a thousand dollars to see you nick a square inch out of that hobo’s chin.”

“Hector of the Tusk must have been an ancestor of yours too, Carrie,” Ben Nevis reminded her.