Part 91 (1/2)

”I'm gaein' for Mistress Cat'nach,” answered the boy.

”Gang yer wa's than, an' dinna haud the deid waitin',” said Malcolm, with a shudder.

The boy cast a look of dismay behind him, and galloped off.

The snow still fell, and the night was dark. Malcolm spent nearly two hours on the way, and met the boy returning, who told him that Mrs Catanach was not to be found.

His road lay down the glen, past Duncan's cottage, at whose door he dismounted, but he did not find him. Taking the bridle on his arm he walked by his horse the rest of the way. It was about nine o'clock, and the night very dark. As he neared the house, he heard Duncan's voice.

”Malcolm, my son! Will it pe your own self?” it said.

”It wull that, daddy,” answered Malcolm.

The piper was sitting on a fallen tree, with the snow settling softly upon him.

”But it's ower cauld for ye to be sittin' there i' the snaw, an'

the mirk tu!” added Malcolm.

”Ta tarkness will not be ketting to ta inside of her,” returned the seer. ”Ah, my poy! where ta light kets in, ta tarkness will pe ketting in too. Tis now, your whole pody will pe full of tarkness, as ta piple will say, and Tuncan's pody--tat will pe full of ta light.” Then with suddenly changed tone he said ”Listen, Malcolm, my son! She 'll pe fery uneasy till you 'll wa.s.s pe come home.”

”What's the maitter noo, daddy?” returned Malcolm. ”Ony thing wrang aboot the hoose?”

”Someting will pe wrong, yes, put she 'll not can tell where. No, her pody will not pe full of light! For town here in ta curset Lowlands, ta sight has peen almost cone from her, my son. It will now pe no more as a co creeping troo' her, and she 'll nefer see plain no more till she 'll pe cone pack to her own mountains.”

”The puir laird's gane back to his,” said Malcolm. ”I won'er gien he kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin' at ilk ane he meets gien he can tell him whaur he cam frae. He's mad nae mair, ony gait.”

”How? Will he pe not tead? Ta poor lairt! Ta poor maad lairt!”

”Ay, he's deid: maybe that's what 'll be troublin' yer sicht, daddy.”

”No, my son. Ta maad lairt was not fery maad, and if he was maad he was not paad, and it was not to ta plame of him; he wa.s.s coot always however.”

”He was that, daddy.”

”But it will pe something fery paad, and it will pe troubling her speerit. When she'll pe take ta pipes, to pe amusing herself, and will plow Till an crodh a' Dhonnachaidh (Turn the cows, Duncan), out will pe come c.u.mhadh an fhir mhoir (The Lament of the Big Man).

All is not well, my son.”

”Weel, dinna distress yersel', daddy. Lat come what wull come.

Foreseein' 's no forefen'in'. Ye ken yersel' 'at mony 's the time the seer has broucht the thing on by tryin' to haud it aff.”

”It will pe true, my son. Put it would aalways haf come.”

”Nae doobt; sae ye jist come in wi' me, daddy, an' sit doon by the ha' fire, an' I 'll come to ye as sune 's I've been to see 'at the maister disna want me. But ye'll better come up wi' me to my room first,” he went on, ”for the maister disna like to see me in onything but the kilt.”

”And why will he no pe in ta kilts aal as now?”

”I hae been ridin', ye ken, daddy, an' the trews fits the saiddle better nor the kilts.”