"'This will be the bride ye are seeking,' snarled he that waited, and gave the sailor the dagger where the throat dimples above the collar-bone. And they say the swarthy lad writhed him up against the old tree and laughed.

"'As long as this tree stands,' he cried, 'you'll never hold to your coward heart the la.s.s ye have done the dirty killin' for,' and died.

Well, Hamish, I'm no' hand at stories, but the old hawthorn had aye flourished white until then, and after that the flourish was fine rich red, and when he that slew the swarthy lad sought to tear the tree down, his hair changed colour in a night, and the strange folks' mark was on him, and he wandered in the hills and died."

As we stood, I fitted into Dan's brief story--for his tale seemed to me to resemble more the headings of a story than a real story,--I fitted in a background of great wind-swept s.p.a.ces, of bare rocks and cold heather and that poor love-maddened outcast wandering alone, and wondered what black pool cooled his brow at the last of it, and there came to my ears a distant cry, and so sure was I that I had imagined it, that I never turned to look, till Dan's laugh roused me.

"Come away from the standin' stanes and the heroes' graves. That wasna the skirl o' a ghost, but a hail frae a sonsy la.s.s--but what gars her risk her bonny legs in yon daft-like wie beats me."

"I think," says I, "yon'll be Finlay Stuart's Uist powny; there's none here has the silver mane and tail. . . ."

"Imphm," says Dan; "imphm, Hamish, as Aul' Nick said when his mouth was fu'. Yon's Finlay's beast, and I'm thinkin' o' a' Finlay's la.s.sies, there's just wan wid bother her noddle tae come here away, and that's Mirren; but wae's me," said he, with his droll smile, "she's set her cap at the excise-man, they tell me."

The la.s.s drew up her pony beside us, and, man, they were a picture, these two--her hair, blown all loose, rippling like a wave, and the flush of youth glowing in her face and neck, and her eyes shining, and the n.o.ble Hieland pony, with his great curved neck and round dark barrel, and the flowing silver mane and tail. To me she bowed coldly enough, but with all the grace of one whose men-folk called themselves Royal, or maybe from Appin--especially in their cups. Although it seems the Royal Stuart race were none too particular whatever, but Dan had always his own way with the la.s.sies.

"Has the de'il run away wi' the excise-man, Mirren, that you're risking horseflesh among the peat-bogs?"

"No," she cries, "no, but I wish he would be taking the whole dollop o'

them to his hob, and then maybe decent folks would be having peace."

"That would stamp ye Finlay's la.s.s if I didna ken already," says Dan.

"Ken me," cried the maid; "I'm well kent as a bad sixpence--a la.s.s that should ha' been a lad wi' work to do or fighting, instead o'

sitting--sitting like a peat stack, or"--with a fine flare o'

colour--"like a midden waiting to be 'lifted.'"

"Ye're hard to please, my dear; there's many a lad wid be sair put oot if ye took to the breeks. . . ."

"It will not be this gab clash I came to be hearin', Dan McBride, but a most private business."

"Oh, don't be minding Hamish, my la.s.s; he canna pa.s.s a rick o' barley but his eyes and mouth water. It's _just lamentable_," said he.

Her red lips took a curl at that, and then her speech came all in a rush.

"I've heard--oh, do not be asking me how I will be hearing these things, but the preventive men are lying at the cove waiting for the _Gull_, and I thought maybe if she came the night, wi' a storm comin'

from the southard and them trying to make the port, they might all be taken away and transported, and he would be among them. . . ."

"Gilchrist the exciseman, Mirren?"

"Why will ye be naming that man to me?" she cried, in a burst of pa.s.sion. "Is it not bad enough to be doing that I let him tell me their plans, and him not knowing where I carry them."

"I might have kent the breed o' ye wouldna be content wi' an exciseman, Mirren. Aweel, Hamish and me will just be having a sail this night, storm or no', and the _Gull_ can coorie into mony's the neuk among the rocks; but whit bates me is how they fun' oot the cove."

"It would just be Dol Bob that told," whispered Mirren.

"The dirty slink," cried Dan. "I'm thinking there will be some talk between that man and me soon; but I'm no good enough looking to be thinking ye rade here to warn me, Mirren, so I'll be tellin' Ronny McKinnon tae keep his heart up yet when the _Seagull's_ here, but ye'll hiv a big handfu' wi' Ronny."

"I would not be having him less," she cried, a little pleased as I thought; and then, as she turned to go, "There's a bonny wild la.s.s at McCurdy's old hut, Dan, and she told me where to look for ye. Ye might tell her Mirren Stuart was speiring for her kindly, and thinking naething of Dan McBride, for the look she gied me out o' her black een made me grue." [2]

So Belle was still at McCurdy's hut. But Dan was thoughtful again, and never spoke till we had the sheep in the low sheltered fields.

But coming home he was whimsical. "Are they not droll now, the la.s.sies, Hamish--here's Mirren Stuart, namely for her good looks, and for the bold spirit of her. Many's the house she has saved with that same Hielan' pony, for Gilchrist, a game lad among gangers, canna keep anything from Mirren, and here she is among the heather wi' word o'

treachery, and d'ye ken who she will be doing it for?"

"No," said I, "except this McKinnon ye spoke of."

"Ay, McKinnon, just wild Ronny, that she cast out wi' years ago when he was a decent farmer's son, close to her own place in the Glen yonder at the far end o' Lamlash, before he slipped away on the _Seagull_."

"I am wishing, Dan," said I, "that ye kent less about the smugglers."

"A man must be doing something, Hamish, to get any pith out o' life.

This is what I am thinking we will be doing the night. We will tell the Laird that it will be as well that somebody should be giving an eye to the sheep he has wintering at Lamlash and the South End, and then we will make for McKelvie's Inn at Lamlash and get a boat across to the Holy Island, and gie McGilp a signal frae the seaward side o' it, where it will not be seen except in the channel. McKelvie at the Quay Inn will ken a' about that. There's a man in the island ye will be glad to meet if he's in his ordinar--McDearg they ca' him--and after that, Hamish, we will stravaig to the South End and see the sheep there and come back hame again. Are ye game for it?" says he.

"Ay, Dan, but there's just this--who is this Dol Beag?"

"Dol Beag has a boat and a wife and weans, and he's a sour riligous man, keen for siller at any price. Well, I'm hoping the gangers have paid him well by this time, for I am thinking he will not enjoy it long."

[1] Fearsome apparitions.

[2] Shiver involuntarily.

CHAPTER VI.

WE TRAMP THROUGH THE SNOW TO McKELVIE'S INN.

With the afternoon came snow, round hard flakes like wee s...o...b..a.l.l.s, dry and silent and all-pervading, and the hills were changed, and there came on the sea that queer mysterious snow light, and then the wind rose skirling, sweeping the uplands bare and filling the quiet hollows.

At supper-time the gale was at its height, the roar from the iron-bound sh.o.r.e was like giants in battle, and I knew that on the black rocks the spray was rising in drifting white smoke, and the rocks trembling to the onset of the seas.

Behind the stackyard, in the old trees, the crows were complaining bitterly with their hard clap-clap tongues, and now and then a great crashing warned of the death of some old storm-scarred veteran of the wood. But it was fine, the music of the storm, the blatter of the snow and the wailing cry of the wind, before a great devastating blast came.

Fine to think that the stackyard was safe and sheltered, and the beasts warm and well, were tearing away at their fodder all unconcerned, and that the sheep were in the low ground of many sheltering knowes and st.u.r.dy whin-bushes, comfortable as sheep could well be, and the thought came to me of how Belle was faring in her lonely sheiling. When the supper was made a meal of and the horn spoons of the lads still busy, Dan had a word with my uncle, for my aunt was mainly taken up watching each new trick of her bairn these days.

"This snaw," says Dan, "will likely haud, and I would like fine to ken if a' these hogs ye hiv wintering over the hill will be getting enough keep.[1] I'm thinking Hamish and me will be as well tae inquire the night before it gets worse outside, for worse it'll be, and we'll be back as soon as the weather betters."

At this my uncle takes a turn round his room with a thoughtful frown on his brow.

"No pranks," says he; "I'll have no gallivanting, but I ken fine ye have an interest in the beasts. . . . Ye can go," and as we turned to leave the room, he wheeled round with outstretched arm and his white finger pointing.

"No pranks, mind. I'll have no pranks."

"G.o.d's life," says Dan, as we m.u.f.fled ourselves for our tramp--"G.o.d's life, Hamish, he's queer names for things, that uncle o' yours; there's nae prank in my heid this night--a queer prank it would be no' tae warn McGilp,"--and as we tramped through the kitchen where the la.s.sies were coorieing over the fire telling bawkin stories, and edging closer to the farm lads for comfort when the gale moaned and whined in the wide chimney--as we tramped through, old Betty took Dan by the sleeve.

"Let go, ye old randy," cried he, in a great pretence of terror. "I'm thinking the old ones are perkier than the young ones these days. . . ."

"Och, my bairn, my bairn," cried the old woman, her two hands on him, "will ye not be stopping in this night, this devil's night? It's nae hogs that's taking ye trakin' weary miles this very night, and fine ye ken the hogs are weel, but ye're just leadin' the young lad astray efter some quean that'll be stickin' tae him like the b.u.t.tons on his coat.