Malcolm

"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 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. " 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. 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 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. 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. 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; ' 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.

" 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."