“How old the story is, I do not know.  It has come down through many generations.  My grandmother told it to me as I tell it to you; and her mother and my mother sat beside, never interrupting, but nodding their heads at every turn.  Almost it ought to begin like the fairy tales, Once upon a time,—­it took place so long ago; but it is too dreadful and too true to tell like a fairy tale.—­There were two brothers, sons of the chief of our clan, but as different in appearance and disposition as two men could be.  The elder was fair-haired and strong, much given to hunting and fishing; fighting too, upon occasion, I daresay, when they made a foray upon the Saxon, to get back a mouthful of their own.  But he was gentleness itself to everyone about him, and the very soul of honour in all his doings.  The younger was very dark in complexion, and tall and slender compared to his brother.  He was very fond of book-learning, which, they say, was an uncommon taste in those times.  He did not care for any sports or bodily exercises but one; and that, too, was unusual in these parts.  It was horsemanship.  He was a fierce rider, and as much at home in the saddle as in his study-chair.  You may think that, so long ago, there was not much fit room for riding hereabouts; but, fit or not fit, he rode.  From his reading and riding, the neighbours looked doubtfully upon him, and whispered about the black art.  He usually bestrode a great powerful black horse, without a white hair on him; and people said it was either the devil himself, or a demon-horse from the devil’s own stud.  What favoured this notion was that in or out of the stable, the brute would let no other than his master go near him.  Indeed, no one would venture, after he had killed two men, and grievously maimed a third, tearing him with his teeth and hoofs like a wild beast.  But to his master he was obedient as a hound, and would even tremble in his presence sometimes.

“The youth’s temper corresponded to his habits.  He was both gloomy and passionate.  Prone to anger, he had never been known to forgive.  Debarred from anything on which he had set his heart, he would have gone mad with longing if he had not gone mad with rage.  His soul was like the night around us now, dark, and sultry, and silent, but lighted up by the red levin of wrath, and torn by the bellowings of thunder-passion.  He must have his will:  hell might have his soul.  Imagine, then, the rage and malice in his heart, when he suddenly became aware that an orphan girl, distantly related to them, who had lived with them for nearly two years, and whom he had loved for almost all that period, was loved by his elder brother, and loved him in return.  He flung his right hand above his head, and swore a terrible oath that if he might not, his brother should not, rushed out of the house, and galloped off among the hills.

“The orphan was a beautiful girl, tall, pale, and slender, with plentiful dark hair, which, when released from the snood, rippled down below her knees.  Her appearance formed a strong contrast with that of her favoured lover, while there was some resemblance between her and the younger brother.  This fact seemed, to his fierce selfishness, ground for a prior claim.