“How do they know, I wonder, that I want to be taken to the Rhonefoot?  They are bringing the small boat,” he heard him say.

A skiff shot out of the gloom.  It was a woman who was rowing.  The boat grounded stern on.  The watcher saw the man step in and settle himself on the seat.

“What rubbish is this?” Gregory Jeffray cried angrily as he cleared a great armful of flowers off the seat and threw them among his feet.

The oars dipped, and without sound the boat glided out upon the waves of the loch towards the Black Water, into whose oily depths the blades fall silently, and where the water does not lap about the prow.  The night grew suddenly very cold.  Somewhere in the darkness over the Black Water the watching surfaceman heard some one call three times the name of Gregory Jeffray.  It sounded like a young child’s voice.  And for very fear he ran in and shut the door, well knowing that for twenty years no boat had plied there.

It was noted as a strange thing that, on the same night on which Sir Gregory Jeffray was lost, the last of the Allens of the old ferry-house died in the Crichton Asylum.  Barbara Allen was, without doubt, mad to the end, for the burden of her latest cry was, “He kens noo! he kens noo!  The Lord our God is a jealous God!  Now let Thy servant depart in peace!”

But Gregory Jeffray was never seen again by water or on shore.  He had heard the cry across the Black Water.

III

SAINT LUCY OF THE EYES

[Taken from the Journals of Travel written by Stephen Douglas, sometime of Culsharg in Galloway.]

  I.

  O mellow rain upon the clover tops;
    O breath of morning blown o’er meadow-sweet;
  Lush apple-blooms from which the wild bee drops
    Inebriate; O hayfield scents, my feet

  Scatter abroad some morning in July;
    O wildwood odours of the birch and pine,
  And heather breaths from great red hill-tops nigh,
    Than olive sweeter or Sicilian vine;—­

  Not all of you, nor summer lands of balm—­
    Not blest Arabia,
  Nor coral isles in seas of tropic calm. 
    Such heart’s desire into my heart can draw.

  II.

  O scent of sea on dreaming April morn
    Borne landward on a steady-blowing wind;
  O August breeze, o’er leagues of rustling corn,
    Wafts of clear air from uplands left behind,

  And outbreathed sweetness of wet wallflower bed,
    O set in mid-May depth of orchard close,
  Tender germander blue, geranium red;
    O expressed sweetness of sweet briar-rose;

  Too gross, corporeal, absolute are ye,
    Ye help not to define
  That subtle fragrance, delicate and free,
    Which like a vesture clothes this Love of mine.

  “Heart’s Delight.”