“That does make a difference!” said the
marquis, a great part of whose unwillingness arose
from the dread of discovery. “It would
be very amusing.”
“I’ll no promise ye that,” returned
Malcolm. “I dinna ken aboot that.—There’s
jist ae objection hooever: ye wad hae to gang
a guid hoor afore they begoud to gaither.—An’
there ’s aye laadies aboot the place sin’
they turned it intill a kirk!” he added thoughtfully.
“But,” he resumed, “we cud manage
them.”
“How?”
“I wad get my gran’father to strik’
up wi’ a spring upo’ the pipes, o’
the other side o’ the bored craig—or
lat aff a shot of the sweevil: they wad a’
rin to see, an’ i’ the meantime we cud
lan’ ye frae the cutter. We wad hae ye
in an’ oot o’ sicht in a moment —Blue
Peter an’ me—as quaiet as gien ye
war ghaists, an’ the hoor midnicht.”
The marquis was persuaded, but objected to the cutter.
They would walk there, he said. So it was arranged
that Malcolm should take him and Lady Florimel to
the Baillies’ Barn the very next time the fishermen
had a meeting.
Lady Florimel was delighted at the prospect of such
an adventure. The evening arrived. An hour
before the time appointed for the meeting, the three
issued from the tunnel, and passed along the landward
side of the dune, towards the promontory. There
sat the piper on the swivel, ready to sound a pibroch
the moment they should have reached the shelter of
the bored craig—his signal being Malcolm’s
whistle. The plan answered perfectly. In
a few minutes, all the children within hearing were
gathered about Duncan—a rarer sight to
them than heretofore—and the way was clear
to enter unseen.
It was already dusk, and the cave was quite dark,
but Malcolm lighted a candle, and, with a little difficulty,
got them up into the wider part of the cleft, where
he had arranged comfortable seats with plaids and
cushions. As soon as they were placed, he extinguished
the light.
“I wish you would tell us another story, Malcolm,”
said Lady Florimel.
“Do,” said the marquis “the place
is not consecrated yet.”
“Did ye ever hear the tale o’ the auld
warlock, my leddy?” asked Malcolm. “Only
my lord kens ’t!” he added.
“I don’t,” said Lady Florimel.
“It’s great nonsense,” said the
marquis.
“Do let us have it, papa.”
“Very well. I don’t mind hearing
it again.” He wanted to see how Malcolm
would embellish it.
“It seems to me,” said Malcolm, “that
this ane aboot Lossie Hoose’ an’ yon ane
aboot Colonsay Castel, are verra likly but twa stalks
frae the same rute. Ony gate, this ane aboot the
warlock maun be the auldest o’ the twa.
Ye s’ hae ’t sic ’s I hae ‘t
mysel’. Mistress Coorthoup taul’
’t to me.”
It was after his own more picturesque fashion, however,
that he recounted the tale of Lord Gernon.
