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 castels
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 Christi-an-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 oonconcernt 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 deil’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’ doon aneth
them as gien it wad hae cast them.
“Richt fremt (_strange_) fowk they luikit whan they cam intill the
coort-yaird--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 by-ous 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 had 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 appeart 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 questons 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 somethin’
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 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 coort-yaird, an’ oot
cam the twa afore them, han’ in han’, declarin’ themsels 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’ themsels,
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 yerl.
“They fand him pacin’ up and doon the ha’, an’ luikin’ like a deid
man in a rage o’ fear. But whan 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 moanin’
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, roon’
an roon’, 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 coort-yaird 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 acquant 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 somethin’ 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 yon
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.