Part 30 (1/2)
”Thou meanest the craven Cathro?”
”Methinks ay. (I like thae short anes.)”
”'Tis well!” says Stroke, sternly. ”That man hath ever slipped between me and my right. His time will come.”
”He floppeth thee--he flouteth thee from the battlements.”
”Ha, 'tis well!”
(”You've said that already.”)
(”I say it twice.”)
(”That's what aye puts me wrang.) Ghost thou to meet the proud Lady Grizel to-night?”
”Ay.”
”Ghost thou alone?”
”Ay.”
(”What easy anes you have!) I fear it is not chancey for thee to go.”
”I must dree my dreed.”
”These women is kittle cattle.”
”The Stuart hath ever a soft side for them. Ah, my trusty foster-brother, knowest thou not what it is to love?”
”Alas, I too have had my fling. (Does Grizel kiss your hand yet?)”
”(No, she winna, the limmer.) Sir Joseph, I go to her.”
”Methinks she is a haughty onion. I prithee go not to-night.”
”I have given my word.”
”Thy word is a band.”
”Adieu, my friend.”
”Methinks thou ghost to thy d.a.m.n. (Did we no promise Elspeth there should be no swearing?)”
The raft Vick Lan Vohr is dragged to the sh.o.r.e, and Stroke steps on board, a proud solitary figure. ”Farewell!” he cries hoa.r.s.ely, as he seizes the oar.
”Farewell, my leech,” answers Corp, and then helps him to disembark.
Their hands chance to meet, and Stroke's is so hot that Corp quails.
”Tommy,” he says, with a shudder, ”do you--you dinna think it's a' true, do you?” But the ill-fated prince only gives him a warning look and plunges into the mazes of the forest. For a long time silence reigns over the Den. Lights glint fitfully, a human voice imitates the plaintive cry of the peewit, cautious whistling follows, comes next the clash of arms, and the scream of one in the death-throes, and again silence falls. Stroke emerges near the Reekie Broth Pot, wiping his sword and muttering, ”Faugh! it drippeth!” At the same moment the air is filled with music of more than mortal--well, the air is filled with music. It seems to come from but a few yards away, and pressing his hand to his throbbing brow the Chevalier presses forward till, pus.h.i.+ng aside the branches of a fallen fir, he comes suddenly upon a scene of such romantic beauty that he stands rooted to the ground. Before him, softly lit by a half-moon (the man in it perspiring with curiosity), is a miniature dell, behind which rise threatening rocks, overgrown here and there by gra.s.s, heath, and bracken, while in the centre of the dell is a bubbling spring called the Cuttle Well, whose water, as it overflows a natural basin, soaks into the surrounding ground and so finds a way into the picturesque stream below. But it is not the loveliness of the spot which fascinates the prince; rather is it the exquisite creature who sits by the bubbling spring, a reed from a hand-loom in her hands, from which she strikes mournful sounds, the while she raises her voice in song. A pink scarf and a blue ribbon are crossed upon her breast, her dark tresses kiss her lovely neck, and as she sits on the only dry stone, her face raised as if in wrapt communion with the heavens, and her feet tucked beneath her to avoid the mud, she seems not a human being, but the very spirit of the place and hour. The royal wanderer remains spellbound, while she strikes her lyre and sings (with but one trivial alteration) the song of MacMurrough:--
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountains, the frith and the lake!