Noo, despite his extreme age an the fact that he wis as blin as a bat, Blind Harry was gey dexterous an capable o bowin an scrapin when it suited him, oh aye, he could grandisonize like ony Coort factotum or major domo, an as he accompanied the lads aroon the trees, workin oot the distances an matchin them intae the plan that wis in his heid, he kent they wis gettin warm: "there wis a bower just hard bye oan the richt there, whaur Boabie's staunin pickin his neb," an even Boab hud a guid laugh at that! but then turnit roon and cried oot: "Harry! is a bower like a wee pickle staun o trees gien shelter? av heerd tell of places whaur mangabeys cavort an swing in the trees – is a mangabey a kind o maun, Harry?" an when Harry explained: "naw it's a sort o monkey an the only monkey roonaboot here is yersel, Boab, yer a red-arsed Baboon wi aw yer questions!" but then assented, Boabie shouted: "ah think av fund it!" and the party followed him into a dappled grove, where Harry sniffed the air an said: "noo look fer a άδυτο," and it wis Humphrey wha said: "is thon the Greek yin, Harry? a private place, a sanctum?" and Harry replied, "aye, ye kin decoct the petals o the floors an mak a pretty potion fer yer sweethearts, iffen you buoys even has sweethearts at yer tender age, oh aye Humphrey MacAugustine-MacAmpersand, as lang's yer nae a dungeonable lad like yer Great-Great-Grand-Uncle Launcelot, ah dun solitary fer seeven lang yeers a-cause o him, wis nearly lynched be a muckle evil-smellin whoreson o a gaoler, an swore, 'ne'er agin!' ah wis younger then an um urny sae young noo, but whit dae ye see?" and the excitit gasps an nervous mumbles telt him that this wis indeed the verra place! " so Harry stood stock still, his face turned up tae the mornin sun, turned slowly roon an pintit wi a horny forefinger: "hey Nicol, jist ahent ye, is therr a big muckle stane? wi a Battle-axe embedded in it? nae need tae be felicitous we yer enser, jist tell me whit ye see," an Nicol looked, but only saw a grassy mound an sed sae, but Harry was charging for it: "it's been hunners o years, laddies, ye'll hae to pull it doon, dig aroon it, pit yer shooders intae it an dinna be felicitous – iffen ye find a Roman coin, ignore it, if ye find a coo's horn that wud be a handy drinkin vessel, use it fer diggin, if ye find a Grecian urn or a statue o Venus or Diana, cast it aside, ye're only luikin fer ae thing!" an the buoys used their dirks tae howk oot the clods o earth, tight-bound wi the roots o gress an broom, until wee Padraig cried oot: "it's the haunle o a Axe, Harry!" an they redoubled their efforts till eventually, a big muckle stane wis exposed an, sure enuff, The Lochlann's Battle-Axe locked hard whaur it had struck doon an smote the evil Sir Parlane MacFarlane, an still stained wi black clouts o his blud, jist as Harry had telt them! and Theresa sent up a silent but felicitous prayer to the Patron Saint of Editors, St Typica, for solving the curious conundrum that had plagued the past two days and had her contemplating the lynching of someone, somewhere, but whither or whom she knew not! she decocted an infusion of lemongrass and coconut and gave a sip to her devoted mangabey, Ginger, after which he swung up into the still-bare branches outside her room and she settled down to watch 24 Hours in A&E, sheer bliss!