Again she hid her face on the settee.

The explanation was plausible enough, and the grief of the mother surely apparent! Malcolm could not but be touched.

"It's no 'at I'm no willin' to be your freen', mem; but I'm yer son's freen' a'ready, an' gien he war to hear onything 'at gart him mislippen till me, it wad gang to my hert."

"Then you can judge what I feel!" said the lady.

"Gien it wad hale your hert to hurt mine, I wad think aboot it, mem; but gien it hurtit a' three o' 's, and did guid to nane, it wad be a misfit a'thegither. I'll du naething till I'm doonricht sure it's the pairt o' a freen'."

"That's just what makes you the only fit person to help me that I know. If I were to employ people in the affair, they might be rough with the poor fellow."

"Like eneuch, mem," assented Malcolm, while the words put him afresh on his guard.

"But I might be driven to it," she added.

Malcolm responded with an unuttered vow.

"It might become necessary to use force—whereas you could lead him with a word."

"Na; I'm naither sic witch nor sic traitor."

"Where would be the treachery when you knew it would be for his good?"

"That's jist what I dinna ken, mem," retorted Malcolm. "Luik ye here, mem," he continued, rousing himself to venture an appeal to the mother's heart; "—here's a man it has pleased God to mak no freely like ither fowk. His min' though cawpable a hantle mair nor a body wad think 'at didna ken him sae weel as I du, is certainly weyk—though maybe the weykness lies mair i' the tongue than i' the brain o' 'im efter a'—an' he's been sair frichtit wi' some guideship or ither; the upshot o 't a' bein', 'at he's unco timoursome, and ready to bursten himsel' rinnin' whan there's nane pursuin'. But he's the gentlest o' craturs—a doonricht gentleman, mem, gien ever there was ane—an' that kin'ly wi' a' cratur, baith man an' beast! A verra bairn cud guide him—ony gait but ane."

"Anywhere but to his mother!" exclaimed Mrs Stewart, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and sobbed as she spoke. "There is a child he is very fond of, I am told," she added, recovering herself.

"He likes a' bairns," returned Malcolm, "an' they 're maistly a' freen'ly wi' him. But there's but jist ae thing 'at maks life endurable till 'im. He suffers a hantle (a great deal) wi' that puir back o' his, an' wi' his breath tu whan he's frichtit, for his hert gangs loupin like a sawmon in a bag net. An' he suffers a hantle, forbye, in his puir feeble min tryin' to unnerstan' the guid things 'at fowk tells him, an' jaloosin' it's his ain wyte 'at he disna unnerstan' them better an' whiles he thinks himsel' the child o' sin and wrath, an' that Sawtan has some special propriety in him, as the carritchis says—"

"But," interrupted the lady hurriedly, "you were going to tell me the one comfort he has."

"It's his leeberty, mem—jist his leeberty; to gang whaur he lists like the win'; to turn his face whaur he wull i' the mornin', an' back again at nicht gien he likes; to wan'er—"

"Back where?" interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly.

"Whaur he likes, mem—I cudna say whaur wi' ony certainty. But aih! he likes to hear the sea moanin', an' watch the stars sheenin'! —There's a sicht o' oondevelopit releegion in him, as Maister Graham says; an' I du not believe 'at the Lord 'll see him wranged mair nor 's for 's guid. But it's my belief, gien ye took the leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him."

"Then you won't help me!" she cried despairingly. "They tell me you are an orphan yourself—and yet you will not take pity on a childless mother!—worse than childless, for I had the loveliest boy once—he would be about your age now, and I have never had any comfort in life since I lost him. Give me my son, and I will bless you—love you."

As she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand on his shoulder. Malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground.

"'Deed, mem, I can an' wull promise ye naething!" he said. "Are ye to play a man fause 'cause he's less able to tak care o' himsel' than ither fowk? Gien I war sure 'at ye cud mak it up, an' 'at he would be happy wi' ye efterhin, it micht be anither thing; but excep' ye garred him, ye cudna get him to bide lang eneuch for ye to try—an' syne (even then) he wad dee afore ye hed convenced him. I doobt, mem, ye hae lost yer chance wi' him and maun du yer best to be content withoot him—I'll promise ye this muckle, gien ye like—I s' tell him what ye hae said upo' the subjec'."

"Much good that will be!" replied the lady, with ill concealed scorn.

"Ye think he wadna unnerstan' 't; but he unnerstan's wonnerfu'."

"And you would come again, and tell me what he said?' she murmured, with the eager persuasiveness of reviving hope.

"Maybe ay, maybe no—I winna promise.—Hae ye ony answer to sen' back to my lord's letter, mem?"

"No; I cannot write; I cannot even think. You have made me so miserable!"

Malcolm lingered.

"Go, go;" said the lady dejectedly. "Tell your master I am not well. I will write tomorrow. If you hear anything of my poor boy, do take pity upon me and come and tell me."

The stiffer partizan Malcolm appeared, the more desirable did it seem in Mrs Stewart's eyes to gain him over to her side. Leaving his probable active hostility out of the question, she saw plainly enough that, if he were called on to give testimony as to the laird's capacity, his witness would pull strongly against her plans; while, if the interests of such a youth were wrapped up in them, that fact in itself would prejudice most people in favour of them.



CHAPTER XXXVI: THE BLOW

"Well, Malcolm," said his lordship, when the youth reported himself, "how's Mrs Stewart?"

"No ower weel pleased, my lord," answered Malcolm.

"What!—you have n't been refusing to—?"

"Deed hev I, my lord!"

"Tut! tut!—Have you brought me any message from her?"

He spoke rather angrily.

"Nane but that she wasna weel, an' wad write the morn."

The marquis thought for a few moments.

"If I make a personal matter of it, MacPhail—I mean—you won't refuse me if I ask a personal favour of you?"

"I maun ken what it is afore I say onything, my lord."

"You may trust me not to require anything you could n't undertake."

"There micht be twa opinions, my lord."

"You young boor! What is the world coming to? By Jove!"

"As far 's I can gang wi' a clean conscience, I'll gang,—no ae step ayont," said Malcolm.

"You mean to say your judgment is a safer guide than mine?"

"No, my lord; I micht weel follow yer lordship's jeedgment, but gien there be a conscience i' the affair, it's my ain conscience I'm bun' to follow, an' no yer lordship's, or ony ither man's. Suppose the thing 'at seemed richt to yer lordship, seemed wrang to me, what wad ye hae me du than?"

"Do as I told you, and lay the blame on me."

"Na, my lord, that winna haud: I bude to du what I thoucht richt, an' lay the blame upo' naebody, whatever cam o' 't."

"You young hypocrite! Why did n't you tell me you meant to set up for a saint before I took you into my service?"

"'Cause I had nae sic intention, my lord. Surely a body micht ken himsel' nae sant, an' yet like to haud his han's clean!"

"What did Mrs Stewart tell you she wanted of you?" asked the marquis almost fiercely, after a moment's silence.

"She wantit me to get the puir laird to gang back till her; but I sair misdoobt, for a' her fine words, it 's a closed door, gien it bena a lid, she wad hae upon him; an' I wad suner be hangt nor hae a thoom i' that haggis."

"Why should you doubt what a lady tells you?"

"I wadna be ower ready, but I hae hard things, ye see, an' bude to be upo' my gaird."

"Well, I suppose, as you are a personal friend of the idiot—" His lordship had thought to sting him, and paused for a moment; but Malcolm's manner revealed nothing except waiting watchfulness.

"—I must employ some one else to get a hold of the fellow for her," he concluded.

"Ye winna du that, my lord," cried Malcolm, in a tone of entreaty; but his master chose to misunderstand him.

"Who's to prevent me, I should like to know?" he said.

Malcolm accepted the misinterpretation involved, and answered— but calmly:

"Me, my lord. I wull. At ony rate, I s' du my best."

"Upon my word!" exclaimed Lord Lossie, "you presume sufficiently on my good nature, young man!"

"Hear me ae moment, my lord," returned Malcolm. "I've been turnin' 't ower i' my min', an' I see, plain as the daylicht, that I'm bun', bein' yer lordship's servan' an' trustit by yer lordship, to say that to yersel' the whilk I was nowise bun' to say to Mistress Stewart. Sae, at the risk o' angerin' ye, I maun tell yer lordship, wi' a' respec', 'at gien I can help it, there sall no han', gentle or semple, be laid upo' the laird against his ain wull."

The marquis was getting tired of the contest. He was angry too, and none the less that he felt Malcolm was in the right.

"Go to the devil you booby!" he said—even more in impatience than in wrath.

"I'm thinkin' I needna budge," retorted Malcolm, angry also.

"What do you mean by that insolence?"

"I mean, my lord, that to gang will be to gang frae him. He canna be far frae yer lordship's lug this meenute."

All the marquis's gathered annoyance broke out at last in rage. He started from his chair, made three strides to Malcolm, and struck him in the face. Malcolm staggered back till he was brought up by the door.

"Hoot, my lord!" he exclaimed, as he sought his blue cotton handkerchief, "ye sudna hae dune that: ye'll blaud the carpet!"

"You precious idiot!" cried his lordship, already repenting the deed; "why did n't you defend yourself?"

"The quarrel was my ain, an' I cud du as I likit, my lord."

"And why should you like to take a blow? Not to lift a hand, even to defend yourself!" said the marquis, vexed both with Malcolm and with himself.

"Because I saw I was i' the wrang, my. lord. The quarrel was o' my ain makin': I hed no richt to lowse my temper an' be impident. Sae I didna daur defen' mysel'. An' I beg yer lordship's pardon. But dinna ye du me the wrang to imaigine, my lord, 'cause I took a flewet (blow) in guid pairt whan I kent mysel' i' the wrang, 'at that's hoo I wad cairry mysel' gien 'twas for the puir laird. Faith! I s' gar ony man ken a differ there!"

"Go along with you—and do n't show yourself till you 're fit to be seen. I hope it 'll be a lesson to you."

"It wull, my lord," said Malcolm. "But," he added, "there was nae occasion to gie me sic a dirdum: a word wad hae pitten me mair i' the wrang."

So saying, he left the room, with his handkerchief to his face. The marquis was really sorry for the blow, chiefly because Malcolm, without a shadow of pusillanimity, had taken it so quietly. Malcolm would, however, have had very much more the worse of it had he defended himself, for his master had been a bruiser in his youth, and neither his left hand nor his right arm had yet forgot their cunning so far as to leave him less than a heavy overmatch for one unskilled, whatever his strength or agility.

For some time after he was gone, the marquis paced up and down the room, feeling strangely and unaccountably uncomfortable.

"The great lout!" he kept saying to himself; "why did he let me strike him?"

Malcolm went to his grandfather's cottage. In passing the window, he peeped in. The old man was sitting with his bagpipes on his knees, looking troubled. When he entered, he held out his arms to him.

"Tere 'll pe something cone wrong with you, Malcolm, my son!" he cried. "You'll pe hafing a hurt! She knows it. She has it within her, though she couldn't chust see it. Where is it?"

As he spoke he proceeded to feel his head and face. "God pless her sowl! you are plooding, Malcolm!" he cried the same moment.

"It's naething to greit aboot, daddy. It's hardly mair nor the flype o' a sawmon's tail."

"Put who 'll pe tone it?" asked Duncan angrily.

"Ow, the maister gae me a bit flewet!" answered Malcolm with indifference.

"Where is he?" cried the piper, rising in wrath. "Take her to him, Malcolm. She will stap him. She will pe killing him. She will trife her turk into his wicked pody."

"Na, na, daddy," said Malcolm; "we hae hed eneuch o' durks a'ready!"

"Tat you haf tone it yourself, ten, Malcolm? My prave poy!"

"No, daddy; I took my licks like a man, for I deserved them."

"Deserfed to pe peaten, Malcolm—to pe peaten like a tog? Ton't tell her tat! Ton't preak her heart, my poy."

"It wasna that muckle, daddy. I only telled him auld Horny was at 's lug."

"And she'll make no toubt it was true," cried Duncan, emerging sudden from his despondency.

"Ay, sae he was, only I had nae richt to say 't."

"Put you striked him pack, Malcolm? Ton't say you tidn't gif him pack his plow. Ton't tell it to her, Malcolm!"

"Hoo cud I hit my maister, an' mysel' i' the wrang, daddy?"

"Then she 'll must to it herself," said Duncan quietly, and, with the lips compressed of calm decision, turned towards the door, to get his dirk from the next room.

"Bide ye still, daddy," said Malcolm, laying hold of his arm, "an' sit ye doon till ye hear a' aboot it first."

Duncan yielded, for the sake of better instruction in the circumstances; over the whole of which Malcolm now went. But before he came to a close, he had skilfully introduced and enlarged upon the sorrows and sufferings and dangers of the laird, so as to lead the old man away from the quarrel, dwelling especially on the necessity of protecting Mr Stewart from the machinations of his mother. Duncan listened to all he said with marked sympathy.

"An' gien the markis daur to cross me in 't," said Malcolm at last, as he ended, "lat him leuk till himsel', for it's no at a buffet or twa I wad stick, gien the puir laird was intill 't."

This assurance, indicative of a full courageous intent on the part of his grandson, for whose manliness he was jealous, greatly served to quiet Duncan; and he consented at last to postpone all quittance, in the hope of Malcolm's having the opportunity of a righteous quarrel for proving himself no coward. His wrath gradually died away, until at last he begged his boy to take his pipes, that he might give him a lesson. Malcolm made the attempt, but found it impossible to fill the bag with his swollen and cut lips, and had to beg his grandfather to play to him instead. He gladly consented, and played until bedtime; when, having tucked him up, Malcolm went quietly to his own room, avoiding supper and the eyes of Mrs Courthope together. He fell asleep in a moment, and spent a night of perfect oblivion, dreamless of wizard lord or witch lady.



CHAPTER XXXVII: THE CUTTER

Some days passed during which Malcolm contrived that no one should see him: he stole down to his grandfather's early in the morning, and returned to his own room at night. Duncan told the people about that he was not very well, but would be all better in a day or two. It was a time of jubilation to the bard, and he cheered his grandson's retirement with music, and with wild stories of highland lochs and moors, chanted or told.

Malcolm's face was now much better, though the signs of the blow were still plain enough upon it, when a messenger came one afternoon to summon him to the marquis's presence.

"Where have you been sulking all this time?" was his master's greeting.

"I havena been sulkin', my lord," answered Malcolm. "Yer lordship tauld me to haud oot o' the gait till I was fit to be seen, an' no a sowl has set an ee upo' me till this verra moment 'at yer lordship has me in yer ain."

"Where have you been then?"

"I' my ain room at nicht, and doon at my gran'father's as lang's fowk was aboot—wi' a bit dauner (stroll) up the burn i' the mirk."

"You couldn't encounter the shame of being seen with such a face —eh?"

"It micht ha' been thoucht a disgrace to the tane or the tither o' 's, my lord—maybe to baith."

"If you don't learn to curb that tongue of yours, it will bring you to worse."

"My lord, I confessed my faut, and I pat up wi' the blow. But if it hadna been that I was i' the wrang—weel, things micht hae differt."

"Hold your tongue, I tell you. You're an honest, good fellow, and I'm sorry I struck you. There!"

"I thank yer lordship."

"I sent for you because I've just heard from Aberdeen that the boat is on her way round. You must be ready to take charge of her the moment she arrives."

"I wull be that, my lord. It doesna shuit me at a' to be sae lang upo' the solid: I'm like a cowt upon a toll ro'd."

The next morning he got a telescope, and taking with him his dinner of bread and cheese, and a book in his pocket, went up to the Temple of the Winds, to look out for the boat. Every few minutes he swept the offing, but morning and afternoon passed, and she did not appear. The day's monotony was broken only by a call from Demon. Malcolm looked landwards, and spied his mistress below amongst the trees, but she never looked in his direction.

He had just become aware of the first dusky breath of the twilight, when a tiny sloop appeared, rounding the Deid Heid, as they called the promontory which closed in the bay on the east. The sun was setting, red and large, on the other side of the Scaurnose, and filled her white sails with a rosy dye, as she came stealing round in a fair soft wind. The moon hung over her, thin, and pale, and ghostly, with hardly shine enough to show that it was indeed she, and not the forgotten scrap of a torn up cloud. As she passed the point and turned towards the harbour, the warm amethystine hue suddenly vanished from her sails, and she looked white and cold, as if the sight of the Death's Head had scared the blood out of her. "It 's hersel'!" cried Malcolm in delight. "Aboot the size a muckle herrin' boat, but nae mair like ane than Lady Florimel 's like Meg Partan! It 'll be jist gran' to hae a cratur sae near leevin' to guide an' tak yer wull o'! I had nae idea she was gaein' to be onything like sae bonny. I'll no be fit to manage her in a squall though. I maun hae anither han'. An' I winna hae a laddie aither. It maun be a grown man, or I winna tak in han' to baud her abune the watter. I wull no. I s' hae Blue Peter himsel' gien I can get him. Eh! jist luik at her—wi' her bit gaff tappie set, and her jib an a', booin' an' booin', an' comin' on ye as gran' 's ony born leddy!"

He shut up his telescope, ran down the hill, unlocked the private door at its foot, and in three or four minutes was waiting her on the harbour wall.

She was a little cutter—and a lovely show to eyes capable of the harmonies of shape and motion. She came walking in, as the Partan, whom Malcolm found on the pierhead, remarked, "like a leddy closin' her parasol as she cam." Malcolm jumped on board, and the two men who had brought her round, gave up their charge.

She was full decked, with a dainty little cabin. Her planks were almost white—there was not a board in her off which one might not, as the Partan expanded the common phrase, "ait his parritch, an' never fin' a mote in 's mou'." Her cordage was all so clean, her standing rigging so taut, everything so shipshape, that Malcolm was in raptures. If the burn had only been navigable so that he might have towed the graceful creature home and laid her up under the very walls of the House! It would have perfected the place in his eyes. He made her snug for the night, and went to report her arrival.

Great was Lady Florimel's jubilation. She would have set out on a "coasting voyage," as she called it, the very next day, but her father listened to Malcolm.

"Ye see, my lord," said Malcolm, "I maun ken a' aboot her afore I daur tak ye oot in her. An' I canna unnertak' to manage her my lane. Ye maun jist gie me anither man wi' me."

"Get one," said the marquis.

Early in the morning, therefore, Malcolm went to Scaurnose, and found Blue Peter amongst his nets. He could spare a day or two, and would join him. They returned together, got the cutter into the offing, and, with a westerly breeze, tried her every way. She answered her helm with readiness, rose as light as a bird, made a good board, and seemed every way a safe boat.

"She's the bonniest craft ever lainched!" said Malcolm, ending a description of her behaviour and qualities rather too circumstantial for his master to follow.

They were to make their first trip the next morning—eastward, if the wind should hold, landing at a certain ancient ruin on the coast, two or three miles from Portlossie.



CHAPTER XXXVIII: THE TWO DOGS

Lady Florimel's fancy was so full of the expected pleasure, that she woke soon after dawn. She rose and anxiously drew aside a curtain of her window. The day was one of God's odes written for men. Would that the days of our human autumn were as calmly grand, as gorgeously hopeful as the days that lead the aging year down to the grave of winter! If our white hairs were sunlit from behind like those radiance bordered clouds; if our air were as pure as this when it must be as cold; if the falling at last of longest cherished hopes did but, like that of the forest leaves, let in more of the sky, more of the infinite possibilities of the region of truth which is the matrix of fact; we should go marching down the hill of life like a battered but still bannered army on its way home. But alas! how often we rot, instead of march, towards the grave! "If he be not rotten before he die," said Hamlet's absolute grave digger.—If the year was dying around Lady Florimel, as she looked, like a deathless sun from a window of the skies, it was dying at least with dignity.

The sun was still revelling in the gift of himself. A thin blue mist went up to greet him, like the first of the smoke from the altars of the morning. The fields lay yellow below; the rich colours of decay hung heavy on the woods, and seemed to clothe them as with the trappings of a majestic sorrow; but the spider webs sparkled with dew, and the gossamer films floated thick in the level sunbeams. It was a great time for the spiders, those visible Deaths of the insect race.

The sun, like a householder leaving his house for a time, was burning up a thousand outworn things before he went; hence the smoke of the dying hearth of summer was going up to the heavens; but there was a heart of hope left, for, when farthest away, the sun is never gone, and the snow is the earth's blanket against the frost. But, alas, it was not Lady Florimel who thought these things! Looking over her shoulder, and seeing both what she can and what she cannot see, I am having a think to myself.

"Which it is an offence to utter in the temple of Art!" cry the critics.

Not against Art, I think: but if it be an offence to the worshipper of Art, let him keep silence before his goddess; for me, I am a sweeper of the floors in the temple of Life, and his goddess is my mare, and shall go in the dust cart; if I find a jewel as I sweep, I will fasten it on the curtains of the doors, nor heed if it should break the fall of a fold of the drapery.

Below Lady Florimel's oriel window, under the tall bridge, the burn lay dark in a deep pool, with a slow revolving eddy, in which one leaf, attended by a streak of white froth, was performing solemn gyrations; away to the north the great sea was merry with waves and spotted with their broken crests; heaped against the horizon, it looked like a blue hill dotted all over with feeding sheep; but, today, she never thought why the waters were so busy—to what end they foamed and ran, flashing their laughter in the face of the sun: the mood of nature was in harmony with her own, and she felt no need to discover any higher import in its merriment. How could she, when she sought no higher import in her own—had not as yet once suspected that every human gladness—even to the most transient flicker of delight—is the reflex—from a potsherd it may be—but of an eternal sun of joy?—Stay, let me pick up the gem: every faintest glimmer, all that is not utter darkness, is from the shining face of the Father of Lights.—Not a breath stirred the ivy leaves about her window; but out there, on the wide blue, the breezes were frolicking; and in the harbour the new boat must be tugging to get free! She dressed in haste, called her staghound, and set out the nearest way, that is by the town gate, for the harbour. She must make acquaintance with her new plaything.

Mrs Catanach in her nightcap looked from her upper window as she passed, like a great spider from the heart of its web, and nodded significantly after her, with a look and a smile such as might mean, that for all her good looks she might have the heartache some day. But she was to have the first herself, for that moment her ugly dog, now and always with the look of being fresh from an ash pit, rushed from somewhere, and laid hold of Lady Florimel's dress, frightening her so, that she gave a cry. Instantly her own dog, which had been loitering behind, came tearing up, five lengths at a bound, and descended like an angel of vengeance upon the offensive animal, which would have fled, but found it too late. Opening his huge jaws, Demon took him across the flanks, much larger than his own, as if he had been a rabbit. His howls of agony brought Mrs Catanach out in her petticoats. She flew at the hound, which Lady Florimel was in vain attempting to drag from the cur, and seized him by the throat.

"Take care; he is dangerous!" cried the girl.

Finding she had no power upon him, Mrs Catanach forsook him, and, in despairing fury, rushed at his mistress. Demon saw it with one flaming eye, left the cur—which, howling hideously, dragged his hind quarters after him into the house—and sprang at the woman. Then indeed was Lady Florimel terrified, for she knew the savage nature of the animal when roused. Truly, with his eyes on fire as now, his long fangs bared, the bristles on his back erect, and his moustache sticking straight out, he might well be believed, much as civilization might have done for him, a wolf after all! His mistress threw herself between them, and flung her arms tight round his neck.

"Run, woman! Run for your life!" she shrieked. "I can't hold him long."

Mrs Catanach fled, cowed by terror. Her huge legs bore her huge body, a tragicomic spectacle, across the street to her open door. She had hardly vanished, flinging it to behind her, when Demon broke from his mistress, and going at the door as if launched from a catapult, burst it open and disappeared also.

Lady Florimel gave a shriek of horror, and darted after him.

The same moment the sound of Duncan's pipes as he issued from the town gate, at which he always commenced instead of ending his reveille now, reached her, and bethinking herself of her inability to control the hound, she darted again from the cottage, and flew to meet him, crying aloud,—"Mr MacPhail! Duncan! Duncan! stop your pipes and come here directly."

"And who may pe calling me?" asked Duncan, who had not thoroughly distinguished the voice through the near clamour of his instrument.

She laid her hand trembling with apprehension on his arm, and began pulling him along.

"It's me,—Lady Florimel," she said. "Come here directly. Demon has got into a house and is worrying a woman."

"Cod haf mercy!" cried Duncan. "Take her pipes, my laty, for fear anything paad should happen to tem."

She led him hurriedly to the door. But ere he had quite crossed the threshold he shivered and drew back.

"Tis is an efil house," he said. "She 'll not can co in." A great floundering racket was going on above, mingled with growls and shrieks, but there was no howling.

"Call the dog then. He will mind you, perhaps," she cried—knowing what a slow business an argument with Duncan was—and flew to the stair.

"Temon! Temon!" cried Duncan, with agitated voice. Whether the dog thought his friend was in trouble next, I cannot tell, but down he came that instant, with a single bound from the top of the stair, right over his mistress's head as she was running up, and leaping out to Duncan, laid a paw upon each of his shoulders, panting with out lolled tongue. But the piper staggered back, pushing the dog from him. "It is plood!" he cried; "ta efil woman's plood!"

"Keep him out, Duncan dear," said Lady Florimel. "I will go and see. There! he'll be up again if you don't mind!"

Very reluctant, yet obedient, the bard laid hold of the growling animal by the collar; and Lady Florimel was just turning to finish her ascent of the stair and see what dread thing had come to pass, when, to her great joy, she heard Malcolm's voice, calling from the farther end of the street—"Hey, daddy! What's happened 'at I dinna hear the pipes?"

She rushed out, the pipes dangling from her hand, so that the drone trailed on the ground behind her.

"Malcolm! Malcolm!" she cried; and he was by her side in scarcely more time than Demon would have taken.

Hurriedly and rather incoherently, she told him what had taken place. He sprang up the stair, and she followed.

In the front garret—with a dormer window looking down into the street—stood Mrs Catanach facing the door, with such a malignant rage in her countenance that it looked demoniacal. Her dog lay at her feet with his throat torn out.

As soon as she saw Malcolm, she broke into a fury of vulgar imprecation—most of it quite outside the pale of artistic record.

"Hoots! for shame, Mistress Catanach!" he cried, "Here's my leddy ahin' me, hearin' ilka word!"

"Deil stap her lugs wi' brunstane! What but a curse wad she hae frae me? I sweir by God i s' gar her pey for this, or my name's no —" She stopped suddenly.

"I thocht as muckle," said Malcolm with a keen look.

"Ye'll think twise, ye deil's buckie, or ye think richt! Wha are ye to think? What sud my name be but Bawby Catanach? Ye're unco upsettin' sin' ye turned my leddy's flunky! Sorrow taik ye baith! My dawtit Beauty!—worriet by that hell tyke o' hers!"

"Gien ye gang on like that, the markis 'll hae ye drummed oot o' the toon or twa days be ower," said Malcolm.

"Wull he than?" she returned with a confident sneer, showing all the teeth she had left. "Ye'll be far hen wi' the markis, nae doobt! An' yon donnert auld deevil ye ca' yer gran'father 'ill be fain eneuch to be drummer, I'll sweir. Care 's my case!"

"My leddy, she's ower ill tongued for you to hearken till," said Malcolm, turning to Florimel who stood in the door white and trembling. "Jist gang doon, an' tell my gran'father to sen' the dog up. There's surely some gait o' garrin' her haud her tongue!"

Mrs Catanach threw a terrified glance towards Lady Florimel.

"Indeed I shall do nothing of the kind!" replied Florimel. "For shame!"

"Hoots, my leddy!" returned Malcolm; "I only said it to try the effec' o' 't. It seems no that ill."

"Ye son o' a deevil's soo!" cried the woman; "I s' hae amen's o' ye for this, gien I sud ro'st my ain hert to get it."

"'Deed, but ye re duin that fine a'ready! That foul brute o' yours has gotten his arles (earnest) tu. I wonner what he thinks o sawmon troot noo!—Eh, mem?"

"Have done, Malcolm," said Florimel. "I am ashamed of you. If the woman is not hurt, we have no business in her house."

"Hear till her!" cried Mrs Catanach contemptuously. "The woman!"

But Lady Florimel took no heed. She had already turned and was going down the stair. Malcolm followed in silence; nor did another word from Mrs Catanach overtake them.

Arrived in the street, Florimel restored his pipes to Duncan —who, letting the dog go, at once proceeded to fill the bag— and, instead of continuing her way to the harbour, turned back, accompanied by Malcolm, Demon, and Lady Stronach's Strathspey.

"What a horrible woman that is!" she said with a shudder.

"Ay is she; but I doobt she wad be waur gien she didna brak oot that gait whiles," rejoined Malcolm.

"How do you mean?"

"It frichts fowk at her, an' maybe sometimes pits 't oot o' her pooer to du waur. Gien ever she seek to mak it up wi' ye, my leddy, I wad hae little to say till her, gien I was you."

"What could I have to say to a low creature like that?"

"Ye wadna ken what she micht be up till, or hoo she micht set aboot it, my leddy. I wad hae ye mistrust her a'thegither. My daddy has a fine moral nose for vermin, an' he canna bide her, though he never had a glimp o' the fause face o' her, an' in trowth never spak till her."

"I will tell my father of her. A woman like that is not fit to live amongst civilized people."

"Ye're richt there, my leddy; but she wad only gang some ither gait amo' the same. Of coorse ye maun tell yer father, but she's no fit for him to tak ony notice o'."

As they sat at breakfast, Florimel did tell her father. His first emotion, however—at least the first he showed—was vexation with herself.

"You must not be going out alone—and at such ridiculous hours," he said. "I shall be compelled to get you a governess."

"Really, papa," she returned, "I don't see the good of having a marquis for a father, if I can't go about as safe as one of the fisher children. And I might just as well be at school, if I'm not to do as I like."

"What if the dog had turned on you!" he said.

"If he dared!" exclaimed the girl, and her eyes flashed.

Her father looked at her for a moment, said to himself—"There spoke a Colonsay!" and pursued the subject no further.

When they passed Mrs Catanach's cottage an hour after, on their way to the harbour, they saw the blinds drawn down, as if a dead man lay within: according to after report, she had the brute already laid out like a human being, and sat by the bedside awaiting a coffin which she had ordered of Watty Witherspail.



CHAPTER XXXIX: COLONSAY CASTLE

The day continued lovely, with a fine breeze. The whole sky and air and sea were alive—with moving clouds, with wind, with waves flashing in the sun. As they stepped on board amidst the little crowd gathered to see, Lady Florimel could hardly keep her delight within the bounds of so called propriety. It was all she could do to restrain herself from dancing on the little deck half swept by the tiller. The boat of a schooner which lay at the quay towed them out of the harbour. Then the creature spread her wings like a bird —mainsail and gaff topsail, staysail and jib—leaped away to leeward, and seemed actually to bound over the waves. Malcolm sat at the tiller, and Blue Peter watched the canvas.

Lady Florimel turned out to be a good sailor, and her enjoyment was so contagious as even to tighten certain strings about her father's heart which had long been too slack to vibrate with any simple gladness. Her questions were incessant—first about the sails and rigging, then about the steering; but when Malcolm proceeded to explain how the water reacted on the rudder, she declined to trouble herself with that.

"Let me steer first," she said, "and then tell me how things work."

"That is whiles the best plan," said Malcolm. "Jist lay yer han' upo' the tiller, my leddy, an' luik oot at yon pint they ca' the Deid Heid yonner. Ye see, whan I turn the tiller this gait, her heid fa's aff frae the pint; an' whan I turn't this ither gait, her heid turns till 't again: haud her heid jist aboot a twa yairds like aff o' 't."

Florimel was more delighted than ever when she felt her own hand ruling the cutter—so overjoyed indeed, that, instead of steering straight, she would keep playing tricks with the rudder—fretting the mouth of the sea palfrey, as it were. Every now and then Malcolm had to expostulate.

"Noo, my leddy, caw canny. Dinna steer sae wull. Haud her steddy. —My lord, wad ye jist say a word to my leddy, or I'll be forced to tak the tiller frae her."

But by and by she grew weary of the attention required, and, giving up the helm, began to seek the explanation of its influence, in a way that delighted Malcolm.

"Ye'll mak a guid skipper some day," he said: "ye spier the richt questions, an' that's 'maist as guid 's kennin' the richt answers."

At length she threw herself on the cushions Malcolm had brought for her, and, while her father smoked his cigar, gazed in silence at the shore. Here, instead of sands, low rocks, infinitively broken and jagged, filled all the tidal space—a region of ceaseless rush and shattered waters. High cliffs of gray and brown rock, orange and green with lichens here and there, and in summer crowned with golden furze, rose behind—untouched by the ordinary tide, but at high water lashed by the waves of a storm.

Beyond the headland which they were fast nearing, the cliffs and the sea met at half tide.

The moment they rounded it—

"Luik there, my lord," cried Malcolm, "—there's Colonsay Castel, 'at yer lordship gets yer name, I'm thinkin', an', ony gait, ane o' yer teetles frae. It maun be mony a hunner year sin' ever Colonsay baid intill 't!"

Well might he say so! for they looked but saw nothing—only cliff beyond cliff rising from a white fringed shore. Not a broken tower, not a ragged battlement invaded the horizon!

"There's nothing of the sort there!" said Lady Florimel.

"Ye maunna luik for tooer or pinnacle, my leddy, for nane will ye see: their time's lang ower. But jist taik the sea face o' the scaur (cliff) i' yer ee, an' traivel alang 't oontil ye come till a bit 'at luiks like mason wark. It scarce rises abune the scaur in ony but ae pairt, an' there it 's but a feow feet o' a wa'."

Following his direction, Lady Florimel soon found the ruin. The front of a projecting portion of the cliff was faced, from the very water's edge as it seemed, with mason work; while on its side, the masonry rested here and there upon jutting masses of the rock, serving as corbels or brackets, the surface of the rock itself completing the wall front. Above, grass grown heaps and mounds, and one isolated bit of wall pierced with a little window, like an empty eyesocket with no skull behind it, was all that was visible from the sea of the structure which had once risen lordly on the crest of the cliff.

"It is poor for a ruin even!" said Lord Lossie.

"But jist consider hoo auld the place is, my lord!—as auld as the time o' the sea rovin' Danes, they say. Maybe it's aulder nor King Alfred! Ye maun regaird it only as a foondation; there's stanes eneuch lyin' aboot to shaw 'at there maun hae been a gran' supperstructur on 't ance. I some think it has been ance disconneckit frae the lan', an' jined on by a drawbrig. Mony a lump o' rock an' castel thegither has rowed doon the brae upon a' sides, an' the ruins may weel hae filled up the gully at last. It's a wonnerfu' auld place, my lord."

"What would you do with it if it were yours, Malcolm?" asked Lady Florimel.

"I wad spen' a my spare time patchin' 't up to gar 't stan' oot agane the wither. It's crum'let awa' a heap sin' I min'."

"What would be the good of that? A rickle of old stones!" said the marquis.

"It's a growth 'at there winna be mony mair like," returned Malcolm. "I wonner 'at yer lordship!"

He was now steering for the foot of the cliff. As they approached, the ruin expanded and separated, grew more massy, and yet more detailed. Still it was a mere root clinging to the soil.

"Suppose you were Lord Lossie, Malcolm, what would you do with it?" asked Florimel, seriously, but with fun in her eyes.

"I wad win at the boddom o' 't first."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Ye'll see whan ye win in till 't. There 's a heap o' voutit places inside yon blin' face. Du ye see yon wee bit squaur winnock? That lats the licht in till ane o' them. There maybe vouts aneath vouts, for them 'at ye can win intill 's half fu' o' yird an' stanes. I wad hae a' that cleart oot, an syne begin frae the verra foondation, diggin', an' patchin', an' buttressin', till I got it a' as soun' as a whunstane; an' whan I cam to the tap o' the rock, there the castel sud tak to growin' again; an' grow it sud, till there it stude, as near what it was as the wit an' the han' o' man cud set it."

"That would ruin a tolerably rich man," said the marquis..

"Ony gait it's no the w'y fowk ruins themsel's nooadays, my lord. They'll pu' doon an auld hoose ony day to save themsel's blastin' poother. There's that gran' place they ca' Huntly Castel!— a suckin' bairn to this for age, but wi' wa's, they tell me, wad stan' for thoosan's o' years: wad ye believe 't? there's a sowlless chiel' o' a factor there diggin' park wa's an' a grainery oot o' 't, as gien 'twar a quarry o' blue stane! An' what 's ten times mair exterord'nar, there's the Duke o' Gordon jist lattin' the gype tak 's wull o' the hoose a' his grace's ain forbears! I wad maist as sune lat a man speyk ill o' my daddy!"

"But this is past all rebuilding," said his lordship. "It would be barely possible to preserve the remains as they are."

"It wad be ill to du, my lord, ohn set it up again. But jist think what a gran' place it wad be to bide in!"

The marquis burst out laughing.

"A grand place for gulls and kittiwakes and sea crows!" he said. "But where is it, pray, that a fisherman like you gets such extravagant notions?—How do you come to think of such things?"

"Thoucht's free, my lord. Gien a thing be guid to think, what for sudna a fisher lad think it? I hae read a heap aboot auld castles an' sic like i' the history o' Scotlan', an' there's mony an auld tale an' ballant aboot them.—Jist luik there, my leddy: ye see yon awfu' hole i' the wa,' wi' the verra inside o' the hill, like, rushin' oot at it?—I cud tell ye a fearfu' tale aboot that same."

"Do let us have it," said Florimel eagerly, setting herself to listen.

"Better wait till we land," said the marquis lazily.

"Ay, my lord; we're ower near the shore to begin a story.—Slack the mainsheet, Peter, an' stan' by the jib—doonhaul—Dinna rise, my leddy; she'll be o' the grun' in anither meenute."

Almost immediately followed a slight grating noise, which grew loud, and before one could say her speed had slackened, the cutter rested on the pebbles, with the small waves of the just turned tide flowing against her quarter. Malcolm was overboard in a moment.

"How the deuce are we to land here?" said the marquis.

"Yes!" followed Florimel, half risen on her elbow, "how the deuce are we to land here?"

"Hoot, my leddy!" said Malcolm, "sic words ill become yer bonny mou'."

The marquis laughed.

"I ask you how we are to get ashore?" said Florimel with grave dignity, though an imp was laughing in the shadows of her eyes.

"I'll sune lat ye see that, my leddy," answered Malcolm; and leaning over the low bulwark he had her in his arms almost before she could utter an objection. Carrying her ashore like a child— indeed, to steady herself, she had put an arm round his shoulders —he set her down on the shingle, and turning in the act, left her as if she had been a burden of nets, and waded back to the boat.

"And how, pray, am I to go?" asked the marquis. "Do you fancy you can carry me in that style?"

"Ow na, my lord! that wadna be dignifeed for a man. Jist loup upo' my back."

As he spoke he turned his broad shoulders, stooping.

The marquis accepted the invitation, and rode ashore like a schoolboy, laughing merrily.

They were in a little valley, open only to the sea, one boundary of which was the small promontory whereon the castle stood. The side of it next them, of stone and live rock combined, rose perpendicular from the beach to a great height; whence, to gain the summit, they had to go a little way back, and ascend by a winding path till they reached the approach to the castle from the landward side.

"Noo, wad na this be a gran' place to bide at, my lord?" said Malcolm, as they reached the summit—the marquis breathless, Florimel fresh as a lark. "Jist see sic an outluik! The verra place for pirates like the auld Danes! Naething cud escape the sicht o' them here. Yon's the hills o' Sutherlan'. Ye see yon ane like a cairn? that's a great freen' to the fisher fowk to tell them whaur they are. Yon's the laich co'st o' Caithness. An' yonner's the north pole, only ye canna see sae far. Jist think, my lord, hoo gran' wad be the blusterin' blap o' the win' aboot the turrets, as ye stude at yer window on a winter's day, luikin oot ower the gurly twist o' the watters, the air fu' o' flichterin snaw, the cloods a mile thick abune yer heid, an' no a leevin cratur but yer ain fowk nearer nor the fairm toon ower the broo yonner!"

"I don't see anything very attractive in your description," said his lordship. "And where," he added, looking around him, "would be the garden?"

"What cud ye want wi' a gairden, an' the sea oot afore ye there? The sea's bonnier than ony gairden. A gairden's maist aye the same, or it changes sae slow, wi' the ae flooer gaein' in, an' the ither flooer comin' oot, 'at ye maist dinna nottice the odds. But the sea's never twa days the same. Even lauchin' she never lauchs twise wi' the same face, an' whan she sulks, she has a hunner w'ys o' sulkin'."

"And how would you get a carriage up here?" said the marquis.

"Fine that, my lord. There's a ro'd up as far's yon neuk. An' for this broo, I wad clear awa the lowse stanes, an' lat the nait'ral gerse grow sweet an' fine, an' turn a lot o' bonny heelan' sheep on till't. I wad keep yon ae bit o' whuns, for though they're rouch i' the leaf; they blaw sae gowden. Syne I wad gether a' the bits o' drains frae a' sides, till I had a bonny stream o' watter aff o' the sweet corn lan', rowin' doon here whaur we stan', an' ower to the castel itsel', an' throu' coort an' kitchie, gurglin' an' rinnin', an' syne oot again an' doon the face o' the scaur, splashin' an' loupin' like mad. I wad lea' a' the lave to Natur' hersel'. It wad be a gran' place, my lord! An' whan ye was tired o' 't, ye cud jist rin awa' to Lossie Hoose, an' hide ye i' the how there for a cheenge. I wad like fine to hae the sortin' o' 't for yer lordship."

"I daresay!" said the marquis.

"Let's find a nice place for our luncheon, papa, and then we can sit down and hear Malcolm's story," said Florimel.

"Dinna ye think, my lord, it wad be better to get the baskets up first?" interposed Malcolm.

"Yes, I think so. Wilson can help you."

"Na, my lord; he canna lea' the cutter. The tide's risin, an' she's ower near the rocks."

"Well, well; we shan't want lunch for an hour yet, so you can take your time."

"But ye maun taik kent, my lord, hoo ye gang amo' the ruins. There's awkward kin' o' holes aboot thae vouts, an' jist whaur ye think there's nane. I dinna a'thegither like yer gaein' wantin' me."

"Nonsense! Go along," said the marquis.

"But I'm no jokin'," persisted Malcolm.

"Yes, yes; we'll be careful," returned his master impatiently, and Malcolm ran down the hill, but not altogether satisfied with the assurance.



CHAPTER XL: THE DEIL'S WINNOCK

Florimel was disappointed, for she longed to hear Malcolm's tale. But amid such surroundings it was not so very difficult to wait. They set out to have a peep at the ruins, and choose a place for luncheon.

From the point where they stood, looking seawards, the ground sunk to the narrow isthmus supposed by Malcolm to fill a cleft formerly crossed by a drawbridge, and, beyond it, rose again to the grassy mounds in which lay so many of the old bones of the ruined carcass.

Passing along the isthmus, where on one side was a steep descent to the shore of the little bay, and on the other the live rock hewn away to wall, shining and sparkling with crystals of a clear irony brown, they next clambered up a rude ascent of solid rock, and so reached what had been the centre of the seaward portion of the castle. Here they came suddenly upon a small hole at their feet, going right down. Florimel knelt, and peeping in, saw the remains of a small spiral stair. The opening seemed large enough to let her through, and, gathering her garments tight about her, she was halfway buried in the earth before her father, whose attention had been drawn elsewhere, saw what she was about. He thought she had fallen in, but her merry laugh reassured him, and ere he could reach her, she had screwed herself out of sight. He followed her in some anxiety, out, after a short descent, rejoined her in a small vaulted chamber, where she stood looking from the little square window Malcolm had pointed out to them as they neared the shore. The bare walls around them were of brown stone, wet with the drip of rains, and full of holes where the mortar had yielded and stones had fallen out. Indeed the mortar had all but vanished; the walls stood and the vaults hung chiefly by their own weight. By breaches in the walls, where once might have been doors, Florimel passed from one chamber to another and another, each dark, brown, vaulted, damp, and weather eaten, while her father stood at the little window she had left, listlessly watching the two men on the beach far below landing the lunch, and the rippled sea, and the cutter rising and falling with every wave of the flowing tide.

At length Florimel found herself on the upper end of a steep sloping ridge of hard, smooth earth, lying along the side of one chamber, and leading across to yet another beyond, which, unlike the rest, was full of light. The passion of exploration being by this time thoroughly roused in her, she descended the slope, half sliding, half creeping. When she thus reached the hole into the bright chamber, she almost sickened with horror, for the slope went off steeper, till it rushed, as it were, out of a huge gap in the wall of the castle, laying bare the void of space, and the gleam of the sea at a frightful depth below: if she had gone one foot further, she could not have saved herself from sliding out of the gap. It was the very breach Malcolm had pointed out to them from below, and concerning which he had promised them the terrible tale. She gave a shriek of terror, and laid hold of the broken wall. To heighten her dismay to the limit of mortal endurance, she found at the very first effort, partly, no doubt, from the paralysis of fear, that it was impossible to reascend; and there she lay on the verge of the steeper slope, her head and shoulders in the inner of the two chambers, and the rest of her body in the outer, with the hideous vacancy staring at her. In a few moments it had fascinated her so that she dared not close her eyes lest it should leap upon her. The wonder was that she did not lose her consciousness, and fall at once to the bottom of the cliff.

Her cry brought her father in terror to the top of the slope.

"Are you hurt, child?" he cried, not seeing the danger she was in.

"It's so steep, I can't get up again," she said faintly.

"I'll soon get you up," he returned cheerily, and began to descend.

"Oh, papa!" she cried, "don't come a step nearer. If you should slip, we should go to the bottom of the rock together. Indeed, indeed, there is great danger! Do run for Malcolm."

Thoroughly alarmed, yet mastering the signs of his fear, he enjoined her to keep perfectly still while he was gone, and hurried to the little window. Thence he shouted to the men below, but in vain, for the wind prevented his voice from reaching them. He rushed from the vaults, and began to descend at the first practicable spot he could find, shouting as he went.

The sound of his voice cheered Florimel a little, as she lay forsaken in her misery. Her whole effort now was to keep herself from fainting, and for this end, to abstract her mind from the terrors of her situation: in this she was aided by a new shock, which, had her position been a less critical one, would itself have caused her a deadly dismay. A curious little sound came to her, apparently from somewhere in the dusky chamber in which her head lay. She fancied it made by some little animal, and thought of the wild cats and otters of which Malcolm had spoken as haunting the caves; but, while the new fear mitigated the former, the greater fear subdued the less. It came a little louder, then again a little louder, growing like a hurried whisper, but without seeming to approach her. Louder still it grew, and yet was but an inarticulate whispering. Then it began to divide into some resemblance of articulate sounds. Presently, to her utter astonishment, she heard herself called by name.

"Lady Florimel! Lady Florimel!" said the sound plainly enough.

"Who's there?" she faltered, with her heart in her throat hardly knowing whether she spoke or not.

"There's nobody here," answered the voice. "I'm in my own bedroom at home, where your dog killed mine."

It was the voice of Mrs Catanach, but both words and tone were almost English.

Anger, and the sense of a human presence, although an evil one, restored Lady Florimel's speech.

"How dare you talk such nonsense?" she said.

"Don't anger me again," returned the voice. "I tell you the truth. I'm sorry I spoke to your ladyship as I did this morning. It was the sight of my poor dog that drove me mad."

"I couldn't help it. I tried to keep mine off him, as you know."

"I do know it, my lady, and that's why I beg your pardon."

"Then there's nothing more to be said."

"Yes, there is, my lady: I want to make you some amends. I know more than most people, and I know a secret that some would give their ears for. Will you trust me?"

"I will hear what you've got to say."

"Well, I don't care whether you believe me or not: I shall tell you nothing but the truth. What do you think of Malcolm MacPhail, my lady?"

"What do you mean by asking me such a question?"

"Only to tell you that by birth he is a gentleman, and comes of an old family."

"But why do you tell me?" said Florimel. "What have I to do with it?"

"Nothing, my lady—or himself either. I hold the handle of the business. But you needn't think it's from any favour for him. I don't care what comes of him. There's no love lost between him and me. You heard yourself this very day, how he abused both me and my poor dog who is now lying dead on the bed beside me!"

"You don't expect me to believe such nonsense as that!" said Lady Florimel.

There was no reply. The voice had departed; and the terrors of her position returned with gathered force in the desolation of redoubled silence that closes around an unanswered question. A trembling seized her, and she could hardly persuade herself that she was not slipping by slow inches down the incline.

Minutes that seemed hours passed. At length she heard feet and voices, and presently her father called her name, but she was too agitated to reply except with a moan. A voice she was yet more glad to hear followed—the voice of Malcolm, ringing confident and clear.

"Haud awa', my lord," it said, "an' lat me come at her."

"You're not going down so!" said the marquis angrily. "You'll slip to a certainty, and send her to the bottom."

"My lord," returned Malcolm, "I ken what I'm aboot, an' ye dinna. I beg 'at ye'll haud ootby, an' no upset the lassie, for something maun depen' upon hersel'. Jist gang awa' back into that ither vout, my lord. I insist upo' 't."

His lordship obeyed, and Malcolm, who had been pulling off his boots as he spoke, now addressed Mair.

"Here, Peter!" he said, "haud on to the tail o' that rope like grim deith.—Na, I dinna want it roon' me; it's to gang roon' her. But dinna ye haul, for it micht hurt her, an' she'll lippen to me and come up o' hersel."



"Dinna be feart, my bonny leddy: there's nae danger—no ae grain. I'm comin'."

With the rope in his hand, he walked down the incline, and kneeling by Florimel, close to the broken wall, proceeded to pass the rope under and round her waist, talking to her, as he did so, in the tone of one encouraging a child.

"Noo, my leddy! Noo, my bonny leddy! Ae meenute, an' ye're as safe's gien ye lay i' yer minnie's lap!"

"I daren't get up, Malcolm! I daren't turn my back to it! I shall drop right down into it if I do!" she faltered, beginning to sob.

"Nae fear o' that! There! ye canna fa' noo, for Blue Peter has the other en', and Peter's as strong 's twa pownies. I'm gaein to tak aff yer shune neist."

So saying, he lowered himself a little through the breach, holding on by the broken wall with one hand, while he gently removed her sandal shoes with the other. Drawing himself up again, he rose to his feet, and taking her hand, said,

"Noo, my leddy, tak a gude grip o' my han', an' as I lift ye, gie a scram'le wi' yer twa bit feet, an' as sune's ye fin' them aneth ye, jist gang up as gien ye war clim'in' a gey stey brae (rather steep ascent). Ye cudna fa' gien ye tried yer warst."

At the grasp of his strong hand the girl felt a great gush of confidence rise in her heart; she did exactly as he told her, scrambled to her feet, and walked up the slippery way without one slide, holding fast by Malcolm's hand, while Joseph kept just feeling her waist with the loop of the rope as he drew it in. When she reached the top, she fell, almost fainting, into her father's arms; but was recalled to herself by an exclamation from Blue Peter: just as Malcolm relinquished her hand, his foot slipped. But he slid down the side of the mound only some six or seven feet to the bottom of the chamber, whence his voice came cheerily, saying he would be with them in a moment. When, however, ascending by another way, he rejoined them, they were shocked to see blood pouring from his foot: he had lighted amongst broken glass, and had felt a sting, but only now was aware that the cut was a serious one. He made little of it, however, bound it up, and, as the marquis would not now hear of bringing the luncheon to the top, having, he said, had more than enough of the place, limped painfully after them down to the shore.

Knowing whither they were bound, and even better acquainted with the place than Malcolm himself; Mrs Catanach, the moment she had drawn down her blinds in mourning for her dog, had put her breakfast in her pocket, and set out from her back door, contriving mischief on her way. Arrived at the castle, she waited a long time before they made their appearance, but was rewarded for her patience, as she said to herself; by the luck which had so wonderfully seconded her cunning. From a broken loophole in the foundation of a round tower, she now watched them go down the hill. The moment they were out of sight, she crept like a fox from his earth, and having actually crawled beyond danger of discovery, hurried away inland, to reach Portlossie by footpaths and byways, and there show herself on her own doorstep.

The woman's consuming ambition was to possess power over others —power to hurt them if she chose—power to pull hidden strings fastened to their hearts or consciences or history or foibles or crimes, and so reduce them, in her knowledge, if not in theirs, to the condition of being, more or less, her slaves. Hence she pounced upon a secret as one would on a diamond in the dust, any fact even was precious, for it might be allied to some secret—might, in combination with other facts, become potent. How far this vice may have had its origin in the fact that she had secrets of her own, might be an interesting question.

As to the mysterious communication she had made to her, Lady Florimel was not able to turn her mind to it—nor indeed for some time was she able to think of anything.



CHAPTER XLI: THE CLOUDED SAPPHIRES

Before they reached the bottom of the hill, however, Florimel had recovered her spirits a little, and had even attempted a laugh at the ridiculousness of her late situation; but she continued very pale. They sat down beside the baskets—on some great stones, fallen from the building above. Because of his foot, they would not allow Malcolm to serve them, but told Mair and him to have their dinner near, and called the former when they wanted anything.

Lady Florimel revived still more after she had had a morsel of partridge and a glass of wine, but every now and then she shuddered: evidently she was haunted by the terror of her late position, and, with the gladness of a discoverer, the marquis bethought himself of Malcolm's promised tale, as a means of turning her thoughts aside from it. As soon, therefore, as they had finished their meal he called Malcolm, and told him they wanted his story.

"It's some fearsome," said Malcolm, looking anxiously at the pale face of Lady Florimel.

"Nonsense!" returned the marquis; for he thought, and perhaps rightly, that if such it would only serve his purpose the better.

"I wad raither tell 't i' the gloamin' roon' a winter fire," said Malcolm, with another anxious look at Lady Florimel.

"Do go on," she said. "I want so much to hear it!"

"Go on," said the marquis; and Malcolm, seating himself near them, began.

I need not again tell my reader that he may take a short cut if he pleases.

"There was ance a great nobleman—like yersel', my lord, only no sae douce—an' he had a great followin', and was thoucht muckle o' in a' the country, frae John o' Groat's to the Mull o' Gallowa'. But he was terrible prood, an' thoucht naebody was to compare wi' him, nor onything 'at onybody had, to compare wi' onything 'at he had. His horse war aye swifter, an' his kye aye better milkers nor ither fowk's; there war nae deer sae big nor had sic muckle horns as the reid deer on his heelan' hills; nae gillies sae strang's his gillies; and nae castles sae weel biggit or sae auld as his! It may ha' been a' verra true for onything I ken, or onything the story says to the contrar'; but it wasna heumble or Christian-like o' him to be aye at it, ower an' ower, aye gloryin'—as gien he had a'thing sae by ord'nar' 'cause he was by ord'nar' himsel', an' they a' cam till him by the verra natur' o' things. There was but ae thing in which he was na fawvoured, and that was, that he had nae son to tak up what he left. But it maittered the less, that the teetle as weel's the lan's, wad, as the tale tells, gang a' the same till a lass bairn—an' a lass bairn he had."

"That is the case in the Lossie family," said the marquis.

"That's hoo I hae hard the tale, my lord; but I wad be sorry sud a' it conteens meet wi' like corroboration.—As I say, a dochter there was, an' gien a' was surpassin', she was surpassin' a'. The faimily piper, or sennachy, as they ca'd him—I wadna wonner, my lord, gien thae gran' pipes yer boonty gae my gran'father, had been his!—he said in ane o' his sangs, 'at the sun blinkit whanever she shawed hersel' at the hoose door. I s' warran' ae thing—'at a' the lads blinkit whan she luikit at them, gien sae be she cud ever be said to condescen' sae far as to luik at ony; for gien ever she set ee upo' ane, she never loot it rist: her ee aye jist slippit ower a face as gien the face micht or micht not be there —she didna ken or care. A'body said she had sic a hauchty leuk as was never seen on human face afore; an' for freen'ly luik, she had nane for leevin' cratur, 'cep' it was her ain father, or her ain horse 'at she rade upo'. Her mither was deid.

"Her father wad fain hae seen her merriet afore he dee'd, but the pride he had gien her was like to be the en' o' a', for she coontit it naething less than a disgrace to pairt wi' maiden leeberty. 'There's no man,' she wad say, whan her father wad be pressin' upo' the subjec',—'there's no mortal man, but yersel', worth the turn o' my ee.' An' the father, puir man, was ower weel pleased wi' the flattery to be sae angry wi' her as he wad fain hae luikit. Sae time gaed on, till frae a bonny lassie she had grown a gran' leddy, an' cud win up the hill nae forder, but bude to gang doon o' the ither side; an' her father was jist near han' daft wi' anxiety to see her wad. But no! never ane wad she hearken till.

"At last there cam to the hoose—that's Colonsay Castel, up there —ae day, a yoong man frae Norrawa', the son o' a great nobleman o' that country; an' wi' him she was some ta'en. He was a fine man to leuk at, an' he pat them a' to shame at onything that nott stren'th or skeel. But he was as heumble as he was fit, an' never teuk ony credit till himsel' for onything 'at he did or was; an' this she was ill pleased wi', though she cudna help likin' him, an' made nae banes o' lattin' him see 'at he wasna a'thegither a scunner till her.

"Weel, ae mornin', verra ear', she gaed oot intill her gairden, an luikit ower the hedge; an' what sud she see but this same yoong nobleman tak the bairn frae a puir traivellin' body, help her ower a dyke, and gie her her bairn again! He was at her ain side in anither meenute, but he was jist that meenute ahint his tryst, an' she was in a cauld rage at him. He tried to turn her hert, sayin' —wad she hae had him no help the puir thing ower the dyke, her bairnie bein' but a fortnicht auld, an' hersel' unco weak-like? but my leddy made a mou' as gien she was scunnert to hear sic things made mention o'. An' was she to stan' luikin' ower the hedge, an' him convoyin' a beggar wife an' her brat! An' syne to come to her ohn ever washen his han's! 'Hoot, my leddy,' says he, 'the puir thing was a human cratur!'—'Gien she had been a God's angel,' says she, 'ye had no richt to keep me waitin'.'—'Gien she had been an angel,' says he, 'there wad hae been little occasion, but the wuman stude in want o' help!'—'Gien 't had been to save her life, ye sudna hae keepit me waitin',' says she. The lad was scaret at that, as weel he micht, an' takin' aff 's bannet, he lowtit laich, an' left her. But this didna shuit my leddy; she wasna to be left afore she said gang! sae she cried him back, an' he cam, bannet in han'; an' she leuch, an' made as gien she had been but tryin' the smeddum o' 'im, an' thoucht him a true k-nicht. The puir fallow pluckit up at this, an' doon he fell upo's knees, an' oot wi' a' 'at was in 's hert,—hoo 'at he lo'ed her mair nor tongue cud tell, an' gien she wad hae him, he wad be her slave for ever.

"'Ye s' be that,' says she, an' leuch him to scorn. 'Gang efter yer beggar wife,' she says; 'I'm sick o' ye.'

"He rase, an' teuk up 's bannet, an' loupit the hedge, an' gae a blast upo' 's horn, an' gethered his men, an' steppit aboord his boat, ower by Puffie Heid yonner, an' awa to Norrowa' ower the faem, 'an was never hard tell o' in Scotlan' again. An' the leddy was hauchtier, and cairried her heid heicher nor ever—maybe to hide a scaum (slight mark of burning) she had taen, for a' her pride.

"Sae things gaed on as afore, till at len'th the tide o' her time was weel past the turn, an' a streak o' the snaw in her coal black hair. For, as the auld sang says,

Her hair was like the craw, An' her ble was like the snaw, An' her bow bendit lip Was like the rose hip, An' her ee was like the licht'nin', Glorious an' fricht'nin'. But a' that wad sune be ower!

"Aboot this time, ae day i' the gloamin', there cam on sic an awfu' storm, 'at the fowk o' the castel war frichtit 'maist oot o' their wits. The licht'nin' cam oot o' the yerd, an' no frae the lift at a'; the win' roared as gien 't had been an incarnat rage; the thunner rattlet an' crackit, as gien the mune an' a' the stars had been made kettledrums o' for the occasion; but never a drap o' rain or a stane o' hail fell; naething brak oot but blue licht an' roarin' win'. But the strangest thing was, that the sea lay a' the time as oonconcerned as a sleepin' bairn; the win' got nae mair grip o' 't nor gien a' the angels had been poorin' ile oot o' widows' cruses upo' 't; the verra tide came up quaieter nor ord'nar; and the fowk war sair perplext as weel's frichtit.

"Jist as the clock o' the castel chappit the deid o' the nicht, the clamour o' v'ices was hard throu' the thunner an' the win,' an' the warder—luikin' doon frae the heich bartizan o' the muckle tooer, saw i' the fire flauchts, a company o' riders appro'chin' the castel, a' upo' gran' horses, he said, that sprang this gait an' that, an shot fire frae their een. At the drawbrig they blew a horn 'at rowtit like a' the bulls o' Bashan, an' whan the warder challencht them, claimt hoose room for the nicht. Naebody had ever hard o' the place they cam frae; it was sae far awa 'at as sane 's a body hard the name o' 't, he forgot it again; but their beasts war as fresh an' as fu' o' smeddum as I tell ye, an' no a hair o' ane o' them turnt. There was jist a de'il's dizzen o' them an whaurever ye began to count them, the thirteent had aye a reid baird.

"Whan the news was taen to the markis—the yerl, I sud say— he gae orders to lat them in at ance; for whatever fau'ts he had, naither fear nor hainin' (penuriousness) was amang them. Sae in they cam, clatterin' ower the drawbrig, 'at gaed up an' down aneth them as gien it wad hae cast them.

"Richt fremt (strange) fowk they luikit whan they cam intill the coortyaird—a' spanglet wi' bonny bricht stanes o' a' colours. They war like nae fowk 'at ever the yerl had seen, an' he had been to Jeroozlem in 's day, an' had fouchten wi' the Saracenes. But they war coorteous men an' weel bred—an' maistly weel faured tu —ilk ane luikin' a lord's son at the least. They had na a single servin' man wi' them, an' wad alloo nane o' the fowk aboot the place to lay han' upo' their beasts; an' ilk ane as he said na, wad gie the stallion aneth him a daig wi' 's spurs, or a kick 'i the ribs, gien he was aff o' 's back, wi' the steel tae o' his bute; an' the brute wad lay his lugs i' the how o' 's neck, an' turn his heid asklent, wi' ae white ee gleyin' oot o' 't, an' lift a hin' leg wi' the glintin' shue turnt back, an' luik like Sawtan himsel' whan he daurna.

"Weel, my lord an' my leddy war sittin' i' the muckle ha', for they cudna gang to their beds in sic a byous storm, whan him 'at was the chief o' them was ushered in by the seneschal, that's the steward, like, booin' afore him, an' ca'in' him the Prence, an' nae mair, for he cudna min' the name o' 's place lang eneuch to say 't ower again.

"An' sae a prence he was! an', forbye that, jist a man by himsel' to luik at!—i' the prime o' life, maybe, but no freely i' the first o' 't, for he had the luik as gien he had had a hard time o' 't, an' had a white streak an' a craw's fit here and there—the liklier to please my leddy, wha lookit doon upo' a'body yoonger nor hersel'. He hae a commandin', maybe some owerbeirin' luik— ane at a man micht hae birstled up at, but a leddy like my leddy wad welcome as worth bringin' doon. He was dressed as never man had appears in Scotlan' afore—glorious withoot—no like the leddy i' the Psalms—for yer ee cud licht nowhaur but there was the glitter o' a stane, sae 'at he flashed a' ower, ilka motion he made. He cairret a short swoord at his side—no muckle langer nor my daddy's dirk, as gien he never foucht but at closs quarters —the whilk had three sapphires—blue stanes, they tell me—an muckle anes, lowin' i' the sheath o' 't, an' a muckler ane still i' the heft; only they war some drumly (clouded), the leddy thoucht, bein' a jeedge o' hingars at lugs (earrings) an' sic vainities.

"That may be 's it may, but in cam the prence, wi' a laich boo, an' a gran upstrauchtin' again; an' though, as I say, he was flashin' a' ower, his mainner was quaiet as the munelicht,—jist grace itsel'. He profest himsel unco' indebtit for the shelter accordit him; an' his een aye soucht the leddy's, an' his admiration o' her was plain in ilka luik an' gestur', an' though his words were feow, they a' meant mair nor they said. Afore his supper cam in, her hert was at his wull.

"They say that whan a wuman's late o' fa'in' in love—ye'll ken my lord—I ken naething aboot it—it 's the mair likly to be an oonrizzonin' an ooncontrollable fancy; in sic maitters it seems wisdom comesna wi' gray hairs: within ae hoor the leddy was enamoured o' the stranger in a fearfu' w'y. She poored oot his wine till him wi' her ane han'; an' the moment he put the glaiss till 's lips, the win' fell an' the lichtnin' devallt (ceased). She set hersel' to put questions till him, sic as she thoucht he wad like to answer—a' aboot himsel' an' what he had come throu'; an' sic stories as he tellt! She atten't till him as she had never dune to guest afore, an' her father saw 'at she was sair taen wi' the man. But he wasna a'thegither sae weel pleased, for there was something aboot him—he cudna say what—'at garred him grue (shudder). He wasna a man to hae fancies, or stan' upo' freits, but he cudna help the creep that gaed doon his backbane ilka time his ee encoontert that o' the prence—it was aye sic a strange luik the prence cuist upon him—a luik as gien him an' the yerl had been a'ready ower weel acquant, though the yerl cudna min' 'at ever he had set ee upo' him. A' the time, hooever, he had a kin' o' suspicion 'at they bude to be auld acquantances, an' sair he soucht to mak him oot, but the prence wad never lat a body get a glimp o' his een 'cep' the body he was speykin' till—that is gien he cud help it, for the yerl did get twa or three glimps o' them as he spak till 's dauchter; an' he declaret efterhin to the king's commissioner, that a pale blue kin' o' a licht cam frae them, the whilk the body he was conversin' wi', an' luikin' straucht at, never saw.

"Weel, the short and the lang o' 't that nicht was, that they gaed a' to their beds.

"I' the mornin', whan the markis—the yerl, I sud say—an' his dochter cam doon the stair, the haill menyie (company) was awa. Never a horse or horse was i' the stable, but the yerl's ain beasts —no ae hair left ahin' to shaw that they had been there! an' i' the chaumers allotted to their riders, never a pair o' sheets had been sleepit in.

"The yerl an my leddy sat doon to brak their fast—no freely i' the same humour, the twa o' them, as ye may weel believe. Whan they war aboot half throu', wha sud come stridin' in, some dour an' ill pleased like, but the prence himsel'! Baith yerl an' leddy startit up: 'at they sud hae sitten doon till a meal ohn even adverteest their veesitor that sic was their purpose! They made muckle adu wi' apologies an' explanations, but the prence aye booed an' booed, an' said sae little, that they thocht him mortal angert, the whilk was a great vex to my leddy, ye may be sure. He had a withert like luik, an' the verra diamonds in 's claes war douf like. A'thegither he had a brunt oot kin' o' aissy (ashy) leuk.

"At len'th the butler cam in, an' the prence signed till him, an' he gaed near, an' the prence drew him doon, an' toot mootit in 's lug—an' his breath, the auld man said, was like the grave: he hadna had 's mornin', he said, an' tell't him to put the whusky upo' the table. The butler did as he was tauld, an' set doon the decanter, an' a glaiss aside it; but the prence bannt him jist fearfu', an' ordert him to tak awa that playock, and fess a tum'ler.

"I'm thinkin', my lord, that maun be a modern touch," remarked Malcolm here, interrupting himself: "there wasna glaiss i' thae times—was there?"

"What do I know!" said the marquis. "Go on with your story."

"But there's mair intill 't than that," persisted Malcolm. "I doobt gien there was ony whusky i' thae times aither; for I hard a gentleman say the ither day 'at hoo he had tastit the first whusky 'at was ever distillt in Scotlan', an' horrible stuff it was, he said, though it was 'maist as auld as the forty-five."

"Confound your long wind! Go on," said the marquis peremptorily.

"We s' ca' 't whusky, than, ony gait," said Malcolm, and resumed.

"The butler did again as he was bidden, an' fiess (fetched) a tum'ler, or mair likely a siller cup, an' the prence took the decanter, or what it micht be, an' filled it to the verra brim. The butler's een 'maist startit frae 's heid, but naebody said naething. He liftit it, greedy like, an' drank aff the whusky as gien 't had been watter. 'That's middlin',' he said, as he set it o' the table again. They luikit to see him fa' doon deid, but in place o' that he begoud to gether himsel' a bit, an' says he, 'We brew the same drink i' my country, but a wee mair pooerfu'.' Syne he askit for a slice o' boar ham an' a raw aipple'; an' that was a' he ate. But he took anither waucht (large draught) o' the whusky, an' his een grew brichter, an' the stanes aboot him began to flash again; an' my leddy admired him the mair, that what wad hae felled ony ither man ony waukened him up a bit. An' syne he telled them hoo, laith to be fashous, he had gi'en orders till 's menyie to be all afore the mornin' brak, an' wait at the neist cheenge hoose till he jined them. 'Whaur,' said the leddy, 'I trust ye'll lat them wait, or else sen' for them.' But the yerl sat an' said never a word. The prence gae him ae glower, an' declared that his leddy's word was law to him; he wad bide till she wulled him to gang. At this her een shot fire 'maist like his ain, an' she smilit as she had never smilit afore; an' the yerl cudna bide the sicht o' 't, but daurna interfere: he rase an' left the room an' them thegither.

"What passed atwixt the twa, there was nane to tell: but or an hoor was by, they cam oot upo' the gairden terrace thegither, han' in han', luikin' baith o' them as gran' an' as weel pleased as gien they had been king and queen. The lang an' the short o' 't was, that the same day at nicht the twa was merried. Naither o' them wad hear o' a priest. Say what the auld yerl cud, they wad not hear o' sic a thing, an' the leddy was 'maist mair set agane 't nor the prence. She wad be merried accordin' to Scots law, she said, an' wad hae nae ither ceremony, say 'at he likit!

"A gran' feast was gotten ready, an' jist the meenute afore it was cairriet to the ha', the great bell o' the castel yowlt oot, an' a' the fowk o' the hoose was gaithered i' the coortyaird, an' oot cam the twa afore them, han' in han', declarin' themsel's merried fowk, the whilk, accordin' to Scots law, was but ower guid a merriage. Syne they sat doon to their denner, an' there they sat —no drinkin' muckle, they say, but merrily enjoyin' themsel's, the leddy singin' a sang noo an' again, an' the prence sayin' he ance cud sing, but had forgotten the gait o' 't: but never a prayer said, nor a blessin' askit—oontil the clock chappit twal, whaurupon the prence and the prencess rase to gang to their bed—in a room whaur the king himsel' aye sleepit whan he cam to see them. But there wasna ane o' the men or the maids 'at wad hae daured be their lanes wi' that man, prence as he ca'd himsel'.

"A meenute, or barely twa, was ower, whan a cry cam frae the king's room—a fearfu' cry—a lang lang skreigh. The men an' the maids luikit at ane anither wi' awsome luiks; an' 'He's killin' her!' they a' gaspit at ance.

"Noo she was never a favourite wi' ony ane o' her ain fowk, but still they couldna hear sic a cry frae her ohn run to the yell."

"They fand him pacin' up and doon the ha', an' luikin' like a deid man in a rage o' fear. But when they telled him, he only leuch at them, an' ca'd them ill names, an' said he had na hard a cheep. Sae they tuik naething by that, an' gaed back trimlin'.

"Twa o' them, a man an' a maid to haud hert in ane anither, gaed up to the door o' the transe (passage) 'at led to the king's room; but for a while they hard naething. Syne cam the soon' o' moanin' an' greitin' an' prayin'.

"The neist meenute they war back again amo' the lave, luikin' like twa corps. They had opent the door o' the transe to hearken closer, an' what sud they see there but the fiery een an' the white teeth o' the prence's horse, lyin' athort the door o' the king's room, wi' 's hied atween 's fore feet, an keepin' watch like a tyke (dog)!

"Er' lang they bethoucht themsels, an twa o' them set oot an aff thegither for the priory—that's whaur yer ain hoose o' Lossie noo stan's, my lord, to fess a priest. It wad be a guid twa hoor or they wan back, an' a' that time, ilka noo an' than, the moaning an' the beggin' an' the cryin' wad come again. An' the warder upo' the heich tooer declared 'at ever sin' midnicht the prence's menyie, the haill twal o' them, was careerin' aboot the castel, noon' an noon', wi' the een o' their beasts lowin', and their heids oot, an' their manes up, an their tails fleein' ahint them. He aye lost sicht o' them whan they wan to the edge o' the scaur, but roon' they aye cam again upo' the ither side, as gien there had been a ro'd whaur there wasna even a ledge.

"The moment the priest's horse set fut upo' the drawbrig, the puir leddy gae anither ougsome cry, a hantle waur nor the first, an' up gat a suddent roar an' a blast o' win' that maist cairried the castel there aff o' the cliff intill the watter, an' syne cam a flash o' blue licht an' a rum'lin'. Efter that, a' was quaiet: it was a' ower afore the priest wan athort the coortyaird an' up the stair. For he crossed himsel' an' gaed straucht for the bridal chaumer. By this time the yerl had come up, an' followed cooerin' ahin' the priest.

"Never a horse was i' the transe; an' the priest, first layin' the cross 'at hang frae 's belt agane the door o' the chaumer, flang 't open wi'oot ony ceremony, for ye 'll alloo there was room for nane.

"An' what think ye was the first thing the yerl saw?—A great hole i' the wa' o' the room, an' the starry pleuch luikin' in at it, an' the sea lyin' far doon afore him—as quaiet as the bride upo' the bed—but a hantle bonnier to luik at; for ilka steek that had been on her was brunt aff, an' the bonny body o' her lyin' a' runklet, an' as black 's a coal frae heid to fut; an' the reek 'at rase frae 't was heedeous. I needna say the bridegroom wasna there. Some fowk thoucht it a guid sign that he hadna cairried the body wi' him; but maybe he was ower suddent scared by the fut o' the priest's horse upo' the drawbrig, an' dauredna bide his oncome. Sae the fower fut stane—wa' had to flee afore him, for a throu gang to the Prence o' the Pooer o' the Air. An' yon's the verra hole to this day, 'at ye was sae near ower weel acquaint wi' yersel', my leddy. For the yerl left the castel, and never a Colonsay has made his abode there sin' syne. But some say 'at the rizzon the castel cam to be desertit a'thegither was, that as aften as they biggit up the hole, it fell oot again as sure 's the day o' the year cam roon' whan it first happened. They say, that at twal o'clock that same nicht, the door o' that room aye gaed tu, an' that naebody daur touch 't, for the heat o' the han'le o' 't; an' syne cam the skreighin' an' the moanin', an' the fearsome skelloch at the last, an' a rum'le like thun'er, an' i' the mornin' there was the wa' oot! The hole's bigger noo, for a' the decay o' the castel has taen to slidin' oot at it, an' doobtless it'll spread an' spread till the haill structur vainishes; at least sae they say, my lord; but I wad hae a try at the haudin' o' 't thegither for a' that. I dinna see 'at the deil sud hae 't a' his ain gait, as gien we war a' fleyt at him. Fowk hae threepit upo' me that there i' the gloamin' they hae seen an' awsome face luikin' in upo' them throu' that slap i' the wa'; but I never believed it was onything but their ain fancy, though for a' 'at I ken, it may ha' been something no canny. Still, I say, wha 's feart? The Ill Man has no pooer 'cep ower his ain kin. We 're tellt to resist him an' he'll flee frae 's."

"A good story, and well told," said the marquis kindly. "Don't you think so, Florimel?"

"Yes, papa," Lady Florimel answered; "only he kept us waiting too long for the end of it."

"Some fowk, my leddy," said Malcolm, "wad aye be at the hin'er en' o' a'thing. But for mysel', the mair pleased I was to be gaein' ony gait, the mair I wad spin oot the ro'd till 't."

"How much of the story may be your own invention now?" said the marquis.

"Ow, nae that muckle, my lord; jist a feow extras an' partic'lars 'at micht weel hae been, wi' an adjective, or an adverb, or sic like, here an' there. I made ae mistak' though; gien 't was you hole yonner, they bude till hae gane doon an' no up the stair to their chaumer."

His lordship laughed, and, again commending the tale, rose: it was time to re-embark—an operation less arduous than before, for in the present state of the tide it was easy to bring the cutter so close to a low rock that even Lady Florimel could step on board.

As they had now to beat to windward, Malcolm kept the tiller in his own hand. But indeed, Lady Florimel did not want to steer; she was so much occupied with her thoughts that her hands must remain idle.

Partly to turn them away from the more terrible portion of her adventure, she began to reflect upon her interview with Mrs Catanach —if interview it could be called, where she had seen no one. At first she was sorry that she had not told her father of it, and had the ruin searched; but when she thought of the communication the woman had made to her, she came to the conclusion that it was, for various reasons—not to mention the probability that he would have set it all down to the workings of an unavoidably excited nervous condition—better that she should mention it to no one but Duncan MacPhail.

When they arrived at the harbour quay, they found the carriage waiting, but neither the marquis nor Lady Florimel thought of Malcolm's foot, and he was left to limp painfully home. As he passed Mrs Catanach's cottage, he looked up: there were the blinds still drawn down; the door was shut, and the place was silent as the grave. By the time he reached Lossie House, his foot was very much swollen. When Mrs Courthope saw it, she sent him to bed at once, and applied a poultice.



CHAPTER XLII: DUNCAN'S DISCLOSURE

The night long Malcolm kept dreaming of his fall; and his dreams were worse than the reality, inasmuch as they invariably sent him sliding out of the breach, to receive the cut on the rocks below. Very oddly this catastrophe was always occasioned by the grasp of a hand on his ankle. Invariably also, just as he slipped, the face of the Prince appeared in the breach, but it was at the same time the face of Mrs Catanach.

The next morning, Mrs Courthope found him feverish, and insisted on his remaining in bed—no small trial to one who had never been an hour ill in his life; but he was suffering so much that he made little resistance.

In the enforced quiescence, and under the excitements of pain and fever, Malcolm first became aware how much the idea of Lady Florimel had at length possessed him. But even in his own thought he never once came upon the phrase, in love, as representing his condition in regard of her: he only knew that he worshipped her, and would be overjoyed to die for her. The youth had about as little vanity as could well consist with individual coherence; if he was vain at all, it was neither of his intellectual nor personal endowments, but of the few tunes he could play on his grandfather's pipes. He could run and swim, rare accomplishments amongst the fishermen, and was said to be the best dancer of them all; but he never thought of such comparison himself. The rescue of Lady Florimel made him very happy: he had been of service to her; but so far was he from cherishing a shadow of presumption, that as he lay there he felt it would be utter content to live serving her for ever, even when he was old and wrinkled and gray like his grandfather: he never dreamed of her growing old and wrinkled and gray.

A single sudden thought sufficed to scatter—not the devotion, but its peace. Of course she would marry some day, and what then? He looked the inevitable in the face; but as he looked, that face grew an ugly one. He broke into a laugh: his soul had settled like a brooding cloud over the gulf that lay between a fisher lad and the daughter of a peer! But although he was no coxcomb, neither had fed himself on romances, as Lady Florimel had been doing of late, and although the laugh was quite honestly laughed at himself, it was nevertheless a bitter one. For again came the question: Why should an absurdity be a possibility? It was absurd, and yet possible: there was the point. In mathematics it was not so: there, of two opposites to prove one an absurdity, was to prove the other a fact. Neither in metaphysics was it so: there also an impossibility and an absurdity were one and the same thing. But here, in a region of infinitely more import to the human life than an eternity of mathematical truth, there was at least one absurdity which was yet inevitable—an absurdity—yet with a villainous attendance of direst heat, marrow freezing cold, faintings, and ravings, and demoniacal laughter.

Had it been a purely logical question he was dealing with, he might not have been quite puzzled; but to apply logic here, as he was attempting to do, was like—not like attacking a fortification with a penknife, for a penknife might win its way through the granite ribs of Cronstadt—it was like attacking an eclipse with a broomstick: there was a solution to the difficulty; but as the difficulty itself was deeper than he knew, so the answer to it lay higher than he could reach—was in fact at once grander and finer than he was yet capable of understanding.

His disjointed meditations were interrupted quite by the entrance of the man to whom alone of all men he could at the time have given a hearty welcome. The schoolmaster seated himself by his bedside, and they had a long talk. I had set down this talk, but came to the conclusion I had better not print it: ranging both high and wide, and touching on points of vital importance, it was yet so odd, that it would have been to too many of my readers but a Chimera tumbling in a vacuum—as they will readily allow when I tell them that it started from the question—which had arisen in Malcolm's mind so long ago, but which he had not hitherto propounded to his friend —as to the consequences of a man's marrying a mermaid; and that Malcolm, reversing its relations, proposed next, the consequences of a man's being in love with a ghost or an angel.

"I'm dreidfu' tired o' lyin' here i' my bed," said Malcolm at length when, neither desiring to carry the conversation further, a pause had intervened. "I dinna ken what I want. Whiles I think its the sun, whiles the win', and whiles the watter. But I canna rist. Haena ye a bit ballant ye could say till me Mr Graham? There's naething wad quaiet me like a ballant."

The schoolmaster thought for a few minutes, and then said, "I'll give you one of my own, if you like, Malcolm. I made it some twenty or thirty years ago."

"That wad be a trate, sir," returned Malcolm; and the master, with perfect rhythm, and a modulation amounting almost to melody, repeated the following verses:

The water ran doon fine the heich hope heid, (head of the valley) Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin; It wimpled, an' waggled, an' sang a screed O' nonsense, an' wadna blin, (cease) Wi' its Rin, burnie, rin.

Frae the hert o' the warl', wi' a swirl an' a sway, An' a Rin, burnie, rin, That water lap clear frae the dark till the day, An' singin' awa' did spin, Wi' its Rin, burnie, rin.

Ae wee bit mile frae the heich hope held, Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin, 'Mang her yows an' her lambs the herd lassie stude An' she loot a tear fa' in, Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin.

Frae the hert o' the maiden that tear drap rase, Wi' a Rin, burnie rin; Wearily clim'in' up narrow ways, There was but a drap to fa' in, Sae slow did that burnie rin.

Twa wee bit miles frae the heich hope heid, Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin, Doon creepit a cowerin' streakie o' reid, An' meltit awa' within, Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin.

Frae the hert o' a youth cam the tricklin' reid, Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin; It ran an' ran till it left him deid, An' syne it dried up i' the win', An' that burnie nae mair did rin.

Whan the wimplin' horn that frae three herts gaed Wi' a Rin, burnie, rin, Cam to the lip o' the sea sae braid, It curled an' grued wi' pain o' sin— But it took that burnie in.