Black rise the hills round the vale of Glenco; Hard rise its rocks up the sides of the sky; Cold fall the streams from the snow on their summits; Bitter are the winds that search for the wanderer; False are the vapours that trail o'er the correi Blacker than caverns that hollow the mountain, Harder than crystals in the rock's bosom Colder than ice borne down in the torrents, More bitter than hail windswept o'er the correi, Falser than vapours that hide the dark precipice, Is the heart of the Campbell, the h.e.l.l hound Glenlyon.

Is it blood that is streaming down into the valley?

Ha! 'tis the red coated blood hounds of Orange.

To hunt the red deer, is this a fit season?

Glenlyon, said Ian, the son of the chieftain: What seek ye with guns and with gillies so many?

Friends, a warm fire, good cheer, and a drink, Said the liar of h.e.l.l, with the death in his heart.

Come home to my house--it is poor, but your own.

Cheese of the goat, and flesh of black cattle, And dew of the mountain to make their hearts joyful, They gave them in plenty, they gave them with welcome; And they slept on the heather, and skins of the red deer.

Och hone for the chief! G.o.d's curse on the traitors!

Och hone for the chief--the father of his people!

He is struck through the brain, and not in the battle!

Och hone for his lady! the teeth of the badgers Have torn the bright rings from her slender fingers!

They have stripped her and shamed her in sight of her clansmen!

They have sent out her ghost to cry after her husband.

Nine men did Glenlyon slay, nine of the true hearts!

His own host he slew, the laird of Inverriggen.

Fifty they slew--the rest fled to the mountains.

In the deep snow the women and children Fell down and slept, nor awoke in the morning.

The bard of the glen, alone among strangers, Allister, bard of the glen and the mountain, Sings peace to the ghost of his father's father, Slain by the curse of Glenco, Glenlyon.

Curse on Glenlyon! His wife's fair bosom Dry up with weeping the fates of her children!

Curse on Glenlyon! Each drop of his heart's blood Turn to red fire and hum through his arteries!

The pale murdered faces haunt him to madness!

The shrieks of the ghosts from the mists of Glenco Ring in his ears through the caves of perdition!

Man, woman, and child, to the last born Campbell, Rush howling to h.e.l.l, and fall cursing Glenlyon-- The liar who drank with his host and then slew him!

While he chanted, the whole being of the bard seemed to pour itself out in the feeble and quavering tones that issued from his withered throat. His voice grew in energy for a while as he proceeded, but at last gave way utterly under the fervour of imprecation, and ceased.

Then, as if in an agony of foiled hate, he sent from chanter and drone a perfect screech of execration, with which the instrument dropped from his hands, and he fell back in his chair, speechless.

Lady Florimel started to her feet, and stood trembling for a moment, hesitating whether to run from the cottage and call for help, or do what she might for the old man herself. But the next moment he came to himself, saying, in a tone of a.s.sumed composure:

"You'll pe knowing now, my laty, why she'll pe hating ta very name of Clenlyon."

"But it was not your grandfather that Glenlyon killed, Mr MacPhail --was it?"

"And whose grandfather would it pe then, my lady?" returned Duncan, drawing himself up.

"The Glenco people weren't MacPhails. I've read the story of the ma.s.sacre, and know all about that."

"He might haf been her mother's father, my laty."

"But you said father's father, in your song."

"She said Allister's father's father, my laty, she pelieves."

"I can't quite understand you, Mr MacPhail."

"Well, you see, my laty, her father was out in the forty-five, and fought ta redcoats at Culloden. Tat's his claymore on ta wall there--a coot plade--though she's not an Andrew Ferrara. She wa.s.s forched in Clenco, py a cousin of her own, Angus py name, and she's a fery coot plade: she 'll can well whistle ta pibroch of Ian Loin apout ta ears of ta Sa.s.senach. Her crandfather wa.s.s with his uncle in ta pattle of Killiecrankie after Tundee--a creat man, my laty, and he died there; and so tid her cranduncle, for a fillain of a Mackay, from Lord Reay's cursed country--where they aalways wa.s.s repels, my laty--chust as her uncle was pe cutting town ta wicket Cheneral Mackay, turned him round, without gifing no warnings, and killed ta poor man at won plow."

"But what has it all to do with your name? I declare I don't know what to call you."

"Call her your own pard, old Tuncan MacPhail, my sweet laty, and haf ta patience with her, and she'll pe telling you aall apout eferyting, only you must gif her olt prams time to tumple temselfs apout. Her head grows fery stupid.--Yes, as she was saying, after ta ploody ma.s.sacre at Culloden, her father had to hide himself away out of sight, and to forge himself--I mean to put upon himself a name tat tidn't mean himself at aal. And my poor mother, who pored me--pig old Tuncan--ta fery tay of ta pattle, would not be hearing won wort of him for tree months tat he was away; and when he would pe creep pack like a fox to see her one fine night when ta moon was not pe up, they'll make up an acreement to co away together for a time, and to call temselfs MacPhails. But py and py tey took their own nems again."

"And why haven't you your own name now? I'm sure it's a much prettier name."

"Pecause she'll pe taking the other, my tear laty."

"And why?"

"Pecause--pecause ... She will tell you another time. She'll pe tired to talk more apout ta cursed Cawmills this fery tay."

"Then Malcolm's name is not MacPhail either?"

"No, it is not, my lady."

"Is he your son's son, or your daughter's son."

"Perhaps not, my laty."

"I want to know what his real name is. Is it the same as yours? It doesn't seem respectable not to have your own names."

"Oh yes, my laty, fery respectable. Many coot men has to porrow nems of teir neighpours. We've all cot our fery own names, only in pad tays, my laty, we ton't aalways know which tey are exactly; but we aal know which we are each other, and we get on fery coot without the names. We lay tem py with our Sappath clothes for a few tays, and they come out ta fresher and ta sweeter for keeping ta Sappath so long, my laty. And now she'll pe playing you ta coronach of Clenco, which she was make herself for her own pipes."

"I want to know first what Malcolm's real name is," persisted Lady Florimel.

"Well, you see, my laty," returned Duncan, "some people has names and does not know them; and some people hasn't names, and will pe supposing they haf."

"You are talking riddles, Mr MacPhail, and I don't like riddles,"

said Lady Florimel, with an offence which was not altogether pretended.

"Yes surely--oh, yes! Call her Tuncan MacPhail, and neither more or less, my laty--not yet," he returned, most evasively.

"I see you won't trust me," said the girl, and rising quickly, she bade him goodnight, and left the cottage.

Duncan sat silent for a few minutes, as if in distress: then slowly his hand went out feeling for his pipes, wherewithal he consoled himself till bedtime.

Having plumed herself upon her influence with the old man, believing she could do anything with him she pleased, Lady Florimel was annoyed at failing to get from him any amplification of a hint in itself sufficient to cast a glow of romance about the youth who had already interested her so much. Duncan also was displeased, but with himself; for disappointing one he loved so much. With the pa.s.sion for confidence which love generates, he had been for some time desirous of opening his mind to her upon the matter in question, and had indeed, on this very occasion, intended to lead up to a certain disclosure; but just at the last he clung to his secret, and could not let it go.

Compelled thereto against the natural impulse of the Celtic nature, which is open and confiding, therefore in the reaction cunning and suspicious, he had practised reticence so long, that he now recoiled from a breach of the habit which had become a second, false nature.

He felt like one who, having caught a bird, holds it in his hand with the full intention of letting it go, but cannot make up his mind to do it just yet, knowing that, the moment he opens his hand, nothing can make that bird his again.