On the present occasion, the laird, still full of
his quest, was the one who lingered. Every few
minutes he would stop and stare, now all around the
horizon, now up to the zenith, now over the wastes
of sky—for, any moment, from any spot in
heaven, earth, or sea, the Father of lights might
show foot, or hand, or face. He had at length
seated himself on a lichen covered stone with his head
buried in his hands, as if, wearied with vain search
for him outside he would now look within and see if
God might not be there, when suddenly a sharp exclamation
from Phemy reached him. He listened.
“Rin! rin! rin!” she cried—the
last word prolonged into a scream.
While it yet rang in his ears, the laird was halfway
down the steep. In the open country he had not
a chance; but, knowing every cranny in the rocks large
enough to hide him, with anything like a start near
enough to the shore for his short lived speed, he was
all but certain to evade his pursuers, especially
in such a dark night as this.
He was not in the least anxious about Phemy, never
imagining she might be less sacred in other eyes than
in his, and knowing neither that her last cry of loving
solitude had gathered intensity from a cruel grasp,
nor that while he fled in safety, she remained a captive.
Trembling and panting like a hare just escaped from
the hounds, he squeezed himself into a cleft, where
he sat half covered with water until the morning began
to break. Then he drew himself out and crept
along the shore, from point to point, with keen circumspection,
until he was right under the village and within hearing
of its inhabitants, when he ascended hurriedly, and
ran home. But having reached his burrow, pulled
down his rope ladder, and ascended, he found, with
trebled dismay, that his loft had been invaded during
the night. Several of the hooked cords had been
cut away, on one or two were shreds of clothing, and
on the window sill was a drop of blood.
He threw himself on the mound for a moment, then started
to his feet, caught up his plaid, tumbled from the
loft, and fled from Scaurnose as if a visible pestilence
had been behind him.
When her parents discovered that Phemy was not in
her garret, it occasioned them no anxiety. When
they had also discovered that neither was the laird
in his loft, and were naturally seized with the dread
that some evil had befallen him, his hitherto invariable
habit having been to house himself with the first gleam
of returning day, they supposed that Phemy, finding
he had not returned, had set out to look for him.
As the day wore on, however, without her appearing,
they began to be a little uneasy about her as well.
Still the two might be together, and the explanation
of their absence a very simple and satisfactory one;
for a time therefore they refused to admit importunate
disquiet. But before night, anxiety, like the
