Outlander by Diana Gabaldon

It goes:
    “Tomorrow I shall be on a hill, without a head.
Have you no compassion for my sorrowful maiden,
My Mary, the fair and tender-eyed?”
    I took his hand and squeezed it lightly.
    As story after story of treachery, murder, and violence were recounted, it seemed as though the loch had earned its sinister reputation.
    “What about the monster?” I asked, peering over the side into the murky depths. It seemed entirely appropriate to such a setting.
    Our guide shrugged and spat into the water.
    “Weel, the loch’s queer, and no mistake. There’s stories, to be sure, of something old and evil that once lived in the depths. Sacrifices were made to it—kine, and sometimes even wee bairns, flung into the water in withy baskets.” He spat again. “And some say the loch’s bottomless—got a hole in the center deeper than anything else in Scotland. On the other hand”—the guide’s crinkled eyes crinkled a bit more—“ ’twas a family here from Lancashire a few years ago, cam’ rushin’ to the police station in Invermoriston, screamin’ as they’d seen the monster come out o’ the water and hide in the bracken. Said ’twas a terrible creature, covered wi’ red hair and fearsome horns, and chewin’ something, wi’ the blood all dripping from its mouth.” He held up a hand, stemming my horrified exclamation.
    “The constable they sent to see cam’ back and said, weel, bar the drippin’ blood, ’twas a verra accurate description”—he paused for effect—“of a nice Highland cow, chewin’ her cud in the bracken!”
    We sailed down half the length of the loch before disembarking for a late lunch. We met the car there and motored back through the Glen, observing nothing more sinister than a red fox in the road, who looked up startled, a small animal of some sort hanging limp in its jaws, as we zoomed around a curve. He leaped for the side of the road and swarmed up the bank, swift as a shadow.
    It was very late indeed when we finally staggered up the path to Mrs. Baird’s, but we clung together on the doorstep as Frank groped for the key, still laughing over the events of the day.
    It wasn’t until we were undressing for bed that I remembered to mention the miniature henge on Craigh na Dun to Frank. His fatigue vanished at once.
    “Really? And you know where it is? How marvelous, Claire!” He beamed and began rattling through his suitcase.
    “What are you looking for?”
    “The alarm clock,” he replied, hauling it out.
    “Whatever for?” I asked in astonishment.
    “I want to be up in time to see them.”
    “Who?”
    “The witches.”
    “Witches? Who told you there are witches?”
    “The vicar,” Frank answered, clearly enjoying the joke. “His housekeeper’s one of them.”
    I thought of the dignified Mrs. Graham and snorted derisively. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
    “Well, not witches, actually. There have been witches all over Scotland for hundreds of years—they burnt them ’til well into the eighteenth century—but this lot is really meant to be Druids, or something of the sort. I don’t suppose it’s actually a coven—not devil-worship, I don’t mean. But the vicar said there was a local group that still observes rituals on the old sun-feast days. He can’t afford to take too much interest in such goings-on, you see, because of his position, but he’s much too curious a man to ignore it altogether, either. He didn’t know where the ceremonies took place, but if there’s a stone circle nearby, that must be it.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “What luck!”
----
    Getting up once in the dark to go adventuring is a lark. Twice in two days smacks of masochism.
    No nice warm car with rugs and thermoses this time, either. I stumbled sleepily up the hill behind Frank, tripping over roots and stubbing my toes on stones. It was cold and misty, and I dug my hands deeper into the pockets of my cardigan.
    One final push up over the crest of the hill, and the