"Tammy Norrie o' the BassCanna kiss a bonny lass?"
"Tammy Norrie o' the BassCanna kiss a bonny lass?"
"Tammy Norrie o' the BassCanna kiss a bonny lass?"
But as Wat looked for a moment away from the white-spotted, lime-washed ledges of Suliscanna to the green-fringed, sandy shores of his own island, he saw that in the water to the north which sent him off at a run. Long ere he reached the beach he had recognized the boat from which John Scarlett and he had been capsized, bobbing quietly up and down at the entrance of the bay.
The rebound or "back-spang" of the current from some hidden reef to the northward had turned the boat aside, even as it had done Wat himself with his oar, and there the treasure was almost within his reach. Wat's clothing was still damp from his previous immersion, so that it was no sacrifice to slip it off him and swim out to the boat. Then, laying his hand on the inverted stern, he managed easily enough to push her before him to a shelving beach of sand, where presently, by the aid of a spar of driftwood, he turned her over. To his great joy he found that the little vessel was still fairly water-tight and apparently uninjured, in spite of her rough-and-tumble steeple-chase with the white horses of the Suck of Suliscanna. Wat opened the lockers and saw, as he had expected, that the pistols and powder were useless. But he found, too, Scarlett's sword and his own trusty blade, together with a dagger, all of which he had the satisfaction of polishing there and then with fine sand held in the palm of his hand.
Then he swung his sword naked to his belt, and felt himself another man in an instant.
The lockers also contained a pair of hams of smoked bacon, which had suffered no damage from the water, and which, so far as sustenance went, would at least serveto tide him over a week or two should he be compelled to remain so long upon the isle.
Nevertheless, when Wat sat down to consider his position and plans, he felt that difficulties had indeed closed impenetrably upon him.
Yet he wasted no time in idle despondency. Lochinvar was of other mettle. He believed his love to be on the island close to him—it might be in the power of his enemy himself, certainly in the hands of his emissaries. John Scarlett, his trusty comrade, was equally surely lost to him. Nevertheless, while his own life lasted, he could not cease from seeking his love, nor yet abandon the quest on which he had come.
So, using the dagger for both knife and cooking apparatus, he cut and ate a slice of the smoked bacon. Then he quenched his thirst with a long drink out of a delicious spring which sent a tiny thread of crystal trickling down the rocks towards the northern strand of Fiara.
Whereupon, refreshed and invigorated, Wat proceeded to reconnoitre. He set about his inquiries with the utmost circumspection and caution, for it occurred to him that if Barra's first line of defence—that of the whirls and glides of the Suck of Suliscanna—had proved itself so effective, it was likely that he had made other dispositions equally dangerous in the event of that line being forced. Wat Gordon pushed his boat into the water and clambered on board. But he soon found that, damaged and water-logged as she was, she would move but sluggishly through the water, and must prove but little under command in any seaway. It was manifestly impossible therefore for Wat, with his single sculling oar, to venture out again into the tide-race which threshed and tore its way past the eastern side of the island.
Wat's harbor of refuge was on the northern shore, in the safest nook of the little sandy haven in which he had first brought his boat ashore. He was resolved, so soon as it should grow a little dusk, that he would endeavor to turn the angle of his small isle, and see if by any means he could find a landing-place along the western side of Suliscanna. When, therefore, the sun had dipped beneath the sea-line, and the striped rose and crimson of the higher clouds faded to gray, Wat slipped into his boat and pushed off. He guided her slowly, sculling along the inner side of the sandy reef which protected the northern bay of Fiara.
As Wat sailed farther to the west he could hear the surf hammering in the caves which look towards the Atlantic—a low, continuous growl of sound, mostly reverberating like the distant roaring of many wild beasts, but occasionally exploding with a louder boom as a full-bodied green roller from mid-ocean fairly caught the mouth of a cave, for a moment gagged and compressed the imprisoned air within it, and then sent it shooting upward through somecreuxor gigantic blow-hole in a burst of foam and white water which rose high into the air. The wonder and solemnity of this ceaseless artillery at the hour of evening, and with the Atlantic itself lying like a sea of glass outside, impressed the landwardborn Wat greatly. For he had never before dwelt in the midst of such sea-marvels, nor yet upon the shores of such a rock-bound, wave-warded prison as this inhospitable isle of Suliscanna.
The heavy boat slowly gathered way under the pressure of the broad oar-blade wielded by Wat's very vigorous young arms. And all went well while he kept the inner and protected side of the reef, but so soon as he had begun to clear the lofty cliffs of Suliscanna, and to bethink himself of attempting to cross the belt of turbid and angry waters interposed between the quiet inner haven and the cool, green lift of the ocean waves without, the boat stuck in the sand and heeled over, first with an oozy glide, and then with a sharper "rasp," as though the knife-edge of a basalt reef were masked beneath. Her head fell sharply away, and the waves coming over the bar in brown-churned foam threatened every moment to swamp her.
Wat felt the depth of the water with his oar, and promptly leaped overboard. His feet sank dangerously into the slushy ooze of the bank, but the boat, relieved of his weight, rose buoyantly on the swell, and Wat, clasping his hands about her prow, was dragged clear,and presently, drenched and dripping for the third time that day, he found himself aboard again.
Clearly there was nothing further to be obtained by persevering in that direction, at least with a boat so unwieldy as that in which Scarlett and he had come over from the main-land. So Wat resolved to try if he could not find a smooth and safe passage by hugging the shore of Fiara, thus avoiding the sweep of the tide-race, and in the end reaching the still, deep strait lying between the rocks of his isle and the huge, lowering cliffs of Lianacraig, which so tantalizingly shut out from his view all that he wished to see of the spot on which, as he believed, his love waited for him.
Full of this thought, Wat turned the prow of the boat and struck confidently along the shore, past the bay where he had first brought the derelict ashore, and on towards the projecting eastern ness of Suliscanna. But here there was no projecting bar, and Wat promptly found himself in the same uneasy, boiling swirl which had so disastrously ended his former voyage. Nevertheless, he persevered for some distance, for indeed he saw no other way of reaching the southern isle. But suddenly, not ten yards in front of his boat, appeared the turbulent, arched back of a yet more furious tide-race. The prow of the boat was snatched around in an instant; two or three staggering blows were dealt her on the quarter as she turned tail. The oar was almost dragged from his hand, and in another moment Wat found himself floating in the smooth water at the tail of the reef, not far from where he had started. He almost laughed, so suddenly and completely had the proof been afforded him that there was no outgate east or west for a heavy craft so undermanned as his was.
It was with a heavy heart, therefore, that Wat had perforce to give up the boat as a means of reaching the southern island. After his defeat he went ashore andsat gloomily watching the pale lilac light of the evening fade from the rocks above the narrow strait. Beneath him the waters of the deep sound were still, and only beat with a pleasant, clappering sound on the rocks. A quick and desperate resolve stirred in Wat's heart.
He stripped himself of his upper clothes, and, leaving all but his shirt and his knee-breeches among the rocks, he bound these upon his head, fastening them with his soldier's belt under his chin.
Then, without pausing a moment to give his resolution time to cool, he dropped into the water and swam straight across the narrow, rock-walled strait towards the black rampart line of the cliffs of Lianacraig.
He was well aware that he had taken his life in his hand, for from the side of the sea these grim crags had apparently never been scaled by human foot. But Wat had another idea than climbing in his mind. As he had watched the waves glide without sound or rebound into the great square arch which yawned in the midst of the rocky face, a belief had grown into certainty within him that the passage must be connected with another arm of the sea at the farther side of the cliffs. With quick, characteristic resolve he determined to discover if this supposition were correct. He found no difficulty in swimming across the narrow strait of Fiara, in spite of a curious dancing undertow which now threw him almost out of the water, and anon mischievously plucked him by the feet as if to drag him bodily down to the bottom. Presently, however, he found himself close underneath the loom of the cliffs, and the great black archway, driven squarely into their centre, yawned above him.
By this time Wat's eyes had become somewhat accustomed to the darkness, and he could make out that the line where the sea met the rocks was brilliantly phosphorescent, and that this pale green glimmer penetrated for some distance into the dark of the rock-cut passage.
Wat did not hesitate a moment, but whispering "For her sake!" he pushed, with a full breast-stroke, straight into the midst of that sullen, brooding blackness and horror of unsteady water. Outside in the sound he had been conscious of the brisk, changeful grip of winds fretting the water, the swift pull of currents fitful as a woman's lighter fancies, the flash of iridescent silver foam defining and yet concealing the grim cliff edges. But inside there was nothing but the blackness of darkness, made only more apparent by a pervading greenish glimmer which, perhaps because it existed more in the eyes of the swimmer than in the actual illumination of the cavern, revealed nothing tangible, but on the contrary seemed only to render the gloom more tense and horrible.
But Wat had made up his mind and was not to be turned aside. He would follow this sea-pass to its end—even if that end should bring death to himself. For at all hazards he was resolved to break a way to his sweetheart, if indeed she yet lived and loved him.
The silence of the cave was remarkable. Wat could feel as he swam the slow, regular pulse-beat of the outer ocean-swell which passed up beneath him, and which at each undulation heaved him some way towards the roof. But he could hear no thundering break as it arched itself on the clattering pebbles or broke on the solid rock bottom as it would have done if the cavern had come soon to an end. He oared his way therefore in silence through the midst of the darkness, keeping his place in the centre of the tunnel by instinct, and perhaps also a little by the faint glimmer of phosphorescence which pursued him through the cave.
The way seemed endless, but after a while, though the wall of rock continued to stand up on either hand, it grew perceptibly lighter overhead. Wat chanced to look downward between his arms as he swam. A disk of light burned in the pure water beneath him. He turned onhis back and glanced up, and there, at the top of an immense black cleft with perpendicular walls, lo! the stars were shining. Without knowing it he had come out of the tunnelled cavern into one of the "goës" or narrow fiords which cut into the Lianacraig fortress of basalt to its very foundations.
The passage still kept about the same width, and the water within it heaved and sighed as before, but the rock wall seemed gradually to decrease in height as Wat went on. Also the direction of the "goë" changed every minute, so that Wat had to steer his way carefully in order to avoid striking upon the jutting, half-submerged rocks at the corners.
Presently the passage ended, and Wat came out again on a broader stretch of water, over which the free, light breezes of the night played chilly. He found himself quite close to the beach of Suliscanna. There was a scent of peat-reek and cheerful human dwellings in the air—of cattle also, the acrid tang of goats, and, sweetest of all to a shipwrecked man, the indescribable kindly something by which man advertises his permanent residence to his fellows amid all the world of inhuman things.
After the darkness of the "goë" it seemed almost lucid twilight here, and Wat could see a black tower relieve itself against the sky, darker than the intense indigo padding in which the stars were set that moonless night. He stood on shore and rubbed himself briskly all over with the rough cloth of his knee-breeches before clothing himself in them. Then he donned the shirt and belt which he had brought over with him on his head by way of that perilous passage through the rocky gateway of Suliscanna, whose virgin defences had probably never been violated in such a manner before.
Being now clothed and in the dignity of his right mind, Wat cautiously directed his way upward towards the bulk of a tower which he saw loom dark above him.
As he went his unshod feet sometimes rasped on the sharp edges of slaty rocks, and anon trod with a pleasantly tickling sensation on the shaggy bull's-fell of the inland heather. Wat drew his breath instinctively shorter and more anxiously, not so much from any increased consciousness of danger as because he knew that at last he trod the isle whereon his love lay asleep, all unconscious of his living presence so near her.
Climbing steadily, he surmounted the steep slope, and came to the angle of the castle wall. Here Wat peered stealthily round. A fire of peat, nearly extinct, smoked sulkily in front of an arched doorway which led underneath the masonry, and stretched out with his bare feet towards it, and barring all passage into the vault, lay a gigantic Highlander with a naked claymore by his side. It was Alister McAlister on guard over his prisoner.
Wat drew back. "Surely," he thought, "it cannot be in this morose dungeon that they have shut my love?"
At the thought he grasped the dagger which was his sole weapon, and glanced at the prostrate form of the unconscious sentinel, with the tangled locks thrown back from the broad brow.
"Never yet did Wat Gordon slay a sleeping man," he muttered, somewhat irresolutely, and took a backward step to consider the matter. But at that instant a thick plaid was thrown over his head and he was pulled violentlyto the ground. Limber Wat twisted like an eel and struck at his assailant with his dagger. But a hand clasped his arm and a voice whispered in his ear, "Down with your blade, man. I am a friend. If ye love Kate McGhie, you endanger both her life and yours by the least noise."
The plaid was unwound from about his head, and in the dim light Wat could see that he stood beside the door of a cabin, so low as hardly to be distinguishable from the bowlders upon the moor, being as shapelessly primitive and turf-overgrown as they. Beside him crouched a woman of middle age, apparently tall and well-featured.
"Wheest, laddie," she whispered, "hae ye the heart o' gowd that the lassie left for ye wi' that daft hempie, Mehitabel Smith?"
Wat slipped the love-token from under his shirt and let the woman touch it. It was chill and damp with the crossing of the salt strait.
"Aye, lad, surely ye are the true lover, and Bess Landsborough is no' the woman to wrang ye," said the wife of Alister. "But mind ye, there are mony dangers yet to encounter. Your friend that was casten oot o' your bit boatie among the Bores o' the Suck is safe-warded yonder in the tower, and that is my man Alister that ye swithered whether to put your gully-knife intil or no."
Wat hastened to disclaim any such fell intent.
"A GIGANTIC HIGHLANDER WITH A NAKED CLAYMORE BY HIS SIDE"
"A GIGANTIC HIGHLANDER WITH A NAKED CLAYMORE BY HIS SIDE"
"Wi' laddie, was I no watchin' ye?" said the woman, "and did I no see the thocht in the verra crook o' your elbow? Bess Landsborough has companied ower lang wi' men o' war no' to ken when they are playin' themselves, and when the death o' the heart rins like wildfire alang the shoother blade, doon the strong airm, and oot at the place where the fingers fasten themselves round the blue steel. Sma' blame till ye! But lest ye should be ower greatly tempted, I e'en threw the plaidie owerye to gie ye time to consider better. For, after a', Alister's my ain man, and a kind man to me. And forbye, stickin' a knife atween puir Alister's ribs wad no hae advantaged you a hair, nor yet helped ye to your bit lass—no, nor even assisted that ill-set skelum Jock Scarlett to win clear oot o' his prison hole."
The woman took Wat by the hand.
"Come this side the hoose," she said; "I want a word wi' you. Bess Landsborough is takin' some risks the nicht, and she maun ken what mainner o' lad she is pittin' her windpipe in danger for."
She drew him round the low, turf-roofed house to the end farthest from the castle. Here stood a peat stack, or rather a mound of the large surface "turves" of the country, for there are no true peat-mosses upon Suliscanna.
Alister's wife crouched upon her heels in the black shelter of the stack, and drew Wat down beside her.
"Now," she said, "what brocht ye here this night, and where did ye come frae?"
"I came seeking Kate McGhie, the lass that I have followed over a thousand miles of land and sea," answered Wat, promptly, "and also to discover what had become of my friend whose name you have mentioned, John Scarlett, he who was with me when our boat overset near the island."
"To seek your lass and your friend, says you," answered the woman, "a good answer and a fair; but whilk o' them the maist? Ye are cauld and wat. Ye will hae soomed frae some hidie-hole in the muckle cliffs they name Lianacraig, I doot na. Was it your lass or your friend that ye thocht on when ye took life in hand and cam' paddling like a pellock through the mirk? Was it for the sake o' your love or your comrade that ye were gangin' to slit the hass of Alister McAlister, decent red-headed son o' a cattle-thief that he is?"
"For both of them," said Wat, stoutly; "I am much beholden to John Scarlett. He set out on this most perilous adventure over seas at a word from me, and without the smallest prospect of advantage to himself."
"I doubt it not," said Bess Landsborough; "it was the little sense o' the cuif all the days of him, that he would ever do more for his comrade than for his lass. And that is maybe the reason annexed to Bess Landsborough's being here this day, a Heelantman's wife on the cauld, plashy isle o' Suliscanna. But, laddie, listen to me. I am no gaun to let the bonny bit young thing that I hae cherished like my ain dochter mak' the same mistake as I made langsyne. Tell me, laddie, as God sees ye, what yin ye wad leave ahint ye, gin ye could tak' but yin o' them and ye kenned that death wad befall the ither?"
"I would take Kate McGhie, though ye hanged old Jack Scarlett as high as Haman," quoth Wat, instantly.
"Fairly and soothly, my man," said the woman, in his ear. "There is no need to rair it as if ye were at a field-preachin' on the wilds of Friarminion. Quietly, quietly; tell me, in brief, what ye wad do for your friend and what for your lass?"
"For my friend I will tell you," said Wat—"though I know not what gives you the right to ask—for my friend I would do all that a man may—face my friend's foes, help his well-wishers till I had not a rag to share, stand shoulder to shoulder with him, and never ask the cause of his quarrel; share the crust and divide the stoup, die and be buried in one hole with him at the last."
"Aye," said Bess, "that is spoken like a soldier, and well spoken, too. Ye mean it, lad, and ye wad do it, too. But for your lass—"
"For her," said Wat, lowering his voice, solemnly, "for the lass I love, is it? I will rather tell you whatI have done already. For her I have gone mad. I have flung my chances by handfuls into the sea. At sight of a single scornful glint of her eye I ran headlong to destruction; at a harsh word from her I had almost thrown away life and honor both. For a kindly word I have set my head in the dust under her foot. I have cherished in my deepest heart no pride, no will, no ambition that I would not have made a stepping-stone of, that her foot might tread upon it."
Wat paused for breath amid the rush of his words ere he went on:
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not honor more,'
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not honor more,'
"'I could not love thee, dear, so much,Loved I not honor more,'
somewhat thus runs the catch. But the man that made that kenned nothing of love. For I would make all the honor of men no more than a straw-wisp to feed the flames to warm the feet of my love withal. To 'die for her' is a pretty saying, and forever in the mouth of every prating fool whenever he comes anigh a woman; but I would smile under the torture of the boot and abide silently the Extreme Question only to preserve her heart from a single pang."
"Would you give her up to another if you knew that it was for her good?"
"A thousand times no!" Wat was beginning, furiously, when his companion put her hand over his mouth.
"If ye dinna hunker doon beside me, and learn to be still, ye will e'en see her ye think so muckle o' the bride o' my Lord o' Barra, and that, too, on the morn of a day when ye will be learning to dance a new quick-step oot o' the tower window up on the heuch there."
"I know," said Wat, speaking more low, and answering as if to himself her former question, "that it is within the power of the love of woman, when it is purest and noblest, to be able to give up that which they loveto another, if they judge that it is for the beloved's good. But they that think such surrender to be the essence of the highest love of men ken nothing at all about the matter. For me, I would a thousand times rather clasp my love in my arms and leap with her over the crags of Lianacraig, than see her given to any other. And I would sooner set the knife into her sweet throat with mine own hand than that Barra should so much as lay a finger upon her."
"And your friend?" said Bess Landsborough. She was smiling in the dark as if she were well pleased.
"Jack Scarlett I love," replied Wat, "but not for him did I break prison, overpass the hollow seas, and lay my life like a very little thing in the palm of a maiden's hand."
"It is well," said Bess Landsborough, with a sigh. "That is the true lilt of the only love that is worth the having. The heart beats just so when there comes into it the love that contents a woman—the love that is given to but few to find in this weariful, unfriendly, self-seeking warld."
She rose to her feet and looked eastward.
"In an hour and a half at the outside ye maun be on your road, lad, back to your hidie-hole. I ask ye not where that may be. But gin Alister McAlister sleeps soundly ye shall speak with your friend—while I, Bess Landsborough, a decent married woman frae the pairish o' Colmonel, keep watch and ward at the chaumer door ower the pair o' ye."
She took him again by the hand, laid her finger a moment soberly on his lip, and then led him about the house to a low door, through which she entered and drew Wat Gordon after her, bowing his head almost to the level of his waist in the act of following his guide.
Wat was rejoiced to know that he was about to see Jack Scarlett, both because he had thought him dead inthe tide-race, and also that together they might devise some plan of escape for themselves and for the delivery of Kate from her durance. At an inner door his guide halted and listened long and earnestly. The chamber in which they stood was dark save for the red ashes of a turf fire in the centre. Bess Landsborough tapped lightly on the inner door and opened it quietly. Then she took Wat by the shoulder and pushed him in.
"Ye said your'Carritches'Bto me, and ye said them weel, or, my faith, 'tis not here ye should have found yoursel' this nicht! Gang in there, lad, and say the 'Proofs' and the 'Reasons Annexed.'"
BCatechism.
BCatechism.
Wat, greatly puzzled, stepped within. He found himself in a small room, dark save when the dying fire of peat in the outer chamber threw red glimmers into it.
"Jack—Jack Scarlett!" whispered Wat, astonished that the old soldier did not greet him.
"He must be very sound asleep!" he thought.
But something in the air of the chamber struck to the heart—something different, subtle, unfamiliar, dazing. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw the figure of a girl lying on a couch of heather over which was thrown a rug made of the skins of wild animals. The face was turned from him, but the girl was not asleep, for he could see that quick, helpless sobs shook her frame, and that her attitude betokened the abandonment of despair. Wat Gordon's heart leaped within him and then stood still, when he realized that for the first time in his life he stood within the chamber of his love.
At the noise of the opening door the girl slowly turned her head, and her eyes fell on the figure of Wat. The young man sank on his knees a little way from the couch. The girl continued to gaze at him without speech, and as for Wat, he could find no fitting words. He strove for utterance, but his tongue was dry to the roots, and the roof of his mouth parched like leather.
Presently Kate sat up with a world of wonder and fear on her face. She was wrapped about the shoulders in a great shawl of fleecy wool, such as a hundred years ago the shipwrecked mariners of the Spanish Armada had taught these northern islanders to knit. Beneath it, here and there, appeared the white glimmer of fine linen cloth, such as could only come from the lint wheels of the Lowlands.
The girl's lips were parted, and her eyes, great and black, appeared so brilliant that the shining of them seemed to lighten all her face there in that dim place.
"Wat," she said, "you have come back to me! I knew you would, and I am not afraid. I knew you would come if you could and speak once to me. For you are mine in all worlds, and you gave your life for me. It is but a dream, I know—but ah, such a sweet dream!"
She held out her arms towards him with such wonderful pity that Wat, kneeling on the floor, could not move; and words he found none to utter, so marvellous did her speech seem to him.
"It is a dream," she repeated, in a voice full of hushed awe, "I know it. And it is a very gracious God that hath sent it to me this first night of my loss. I saw my lad go down in the deep, hurrying waters—my love, my love, and now he will never know that I loved him!"
"Kate," whispered Wat, hoarsely, and with a voice which he knew not for his own—"Kate, it is indeed I—myself, in the flesh. I have come to save you. I did not die. I did not drown. It is I, Wat Gordon, your own lad, come to kiss your hand, to carry you safe through a world of enemies."
The girl leaned forward and looked towards him wistfully and intently. She was shaken from head to foot with strange tremors. Love, fear, and most delicious shame strove together within her maiden's heart.
"If indeed you be Walter Gordon in the flesh, I thank the Lord for your safety. But go, for here you are in terrible danger every moment. I have said, I know not what. I was asleep, and when I awoke I saw you, and thought that I yet dreamed a dream."
Wat reached over and took her hand. He bent his head to it reverently and kissed it.
"Sweet love," he whispered, "have no fear. In a little while I shall be away. I must go from you ere the dawncomes. But your friend and mine, your hostess of the isle, brought me to this dear and sacred place, thinking me not unworthy. She waits at the door. In a little space the light will come and the island men awake. Then I must take my life in my hand and be far away before the day. But rest assured, I am at all times near enough to watch over you, my beloved."
Wat looked steadfastly and adoringly at Kate, and lo! the tears were running silently down her face and falling on the pillow. He drew a little nearer to her.
"Love," he said, softly, "you have forgiven me. You forgave me long ago, did you not? I loved you over much. That was the reason. See," he whispered, pulling his gold heart from about his neck, "this is the token that you forgave me." And he bent and kissed it before putting it back again in his bosom.
She raised her eyes to his. They shone upon him with a strange light that had never been kindled in them before. The light of a great love shone out of the wonderful deeps of them, beaconing the way clear into the haven of her heart. It was the maiden's look of gladness he saw there—the joy that she had kept herself for the beloved—so that now at last she can give him all.
"Oh, Wat—dear, dear Wat," she whispered, "I love you; I cannot choose but love you. I cannot be proud with you any more. I am so tired of being proud. For my heart has cried out for you to come to me this weary, weary while. I have been so long alone—without any one—without you."
And she made a little virginal gesture of pain which sent Wat's arms about her in a moment. He could not answer her in words.
But he was wiser, for instead their lips drew together. He kept his eyes on hers as their faces closed each on the other. His head reeled with the imagined sweetness. He seemed to remember nothing but her eyes, and howthey were ocean-deep and world-large. He felt that he could plunge into them as into the sea from an overhanging cliff.
But just ere their lips met Kate suddenly dropped her head against his breast.
"Wat!" she whispered, intensely, "tell me—you heard what I said when I thought you had come to me in a dream—that—that I loved you and wanted you to return to me? You will never think less of me, never love me less for my words, nor for letting you love me thus?"
Wat Gordon laughed a low, secure, satisfied laugh deep down in his throat. He had forgotten the watchful woman at the door, the waking enemies without, the coming dawn swiftly striding towards Suliscanna from the east, the long, dangerous passage of the sea-cavern, the perils innumerable that lay about them both. He loved, and he held his love all securely in his arms. She questioned of his love, and he felt that he could answer her.
"My love," he whispered, "I love you so that all things—life, death, eternity—are the same to me. Nothing weighs in the scale when set to balance you. I loved you, Kate, when I thought you must hate me for my folly and wickedness. How shall I love you now, when your sweetest words of this night are writ in fire on my heart? But all is one—I love you, and I love you, and I love you!"
The girl sighed the satisfied sigh of one who listens to that which she desires to hear and knows that she will hear, yet who for very love's sake must needs hear it again and yet again.
And her arms also went tremblingly about him, and they twain that had been sundered so long, kissed their first kiss—the kiss of surrender that comes but once, and then only to the pure and worthy. The dewy warmth and fragrance of her lips, the heady rapture of the unexpected meeting so thrilled his heart and dominated hissenses that broad day might well have stolen upon them and found the lovers so, "the world forgetting, by the world forgot."
But the voice of Bess Landsborough from the doorway caused them to start suddenly apart with a shock of loss like the snapping of a limb. Yet it was a kindly voice, and one full of infinite sympathy for those who, like Wat and Kate, were ready to count all things well lost for love.
"My lad," she said, gently, "ye maun e'en be tramping. In an hour or so the sun will be keekin' ower the hills of the east, and gin ye tarry your lass will mourn a lover. There are more days than one, and nights longer than this short one of summer. Trust your love to me. Bess Landsborough chose a strange way of love hersel', but she keeps a kindly heart for young folk, and you twa silly bairnies shall not lippen to her in vain. Come your ways, lad."
And Wat would have gone at her word. For the hope of the future had possession of him, and, besides, his head was dazed and moidered with the first taste of love's sweetness.
But the girl raised herself a little and held out her arms.
"Bid me good-night just this once," she said, "and tell me again that you love me."
So Wat took his sweetheart in his arms. There seemed no words that he could say which would express the thoughts of his heart at that moment.
"I love you—God knowshowI love you!" was all that he found to say. And then, "God keep my little lass!"
There came a strange hush in his ears, and the next moment he found himself outside, breasting the cool airs of the night as if they had been the waves of the tide-race, and listening to the voice of Bess Landsborough, which carried no more meaning to his ears than if it hadbeen the crying of a seagull rookery upon the rocks of Lianacraig.
"Come back to-night and I will meet you at the shore-side," was all that disentangled itself from the meaningless turmoil of his guide's words. For the fragrance of his love's lips was yet on his, and he was wondering how long the memory of it would stay with him.
Without even waiting to take off his clothes, Wat pushed out into the channel of the sea-passage. He swam as easily and unconsciously as though he had been floating in some world of dreams, in which he found himself finned like a fish. And when he came to himself he was lying under the shelter of his boat in the cove of his own green islet of Fiara, trying to recall the look that he had seen in his love's eyes in the gloom of Bess Landsborough's guest-chamber. But though he buried his head in his hands, and laid his hands on the sand to shut out the sky and the shining breakers, he could not recall the similitude of it. Only he knew that it had been most wonderful, and that his eyes had never seen anything like it before.
When Wat awoke on the island and stirred his cramped limbs, on which the sun had already dried his wet clothes, in the warm and briskly stirring airs of the summer morning, he could hardly believe in the reality of his experiences of the night. One by one he remembered the passage of the cave, the Highland sentinel sleeping by his dying fire, his new and kindly protector, Bess Landsborough. Then last of all, and suddenly overflowing all his heart with mighty love (even as a volcano, Askja or Vatna, pours without warning its burning streams over icy provinces), the meeting with his love in the dusky undercloud of night rushed upon his memory and filled all his soul with a swift and desperate joy.
What wonder that the sweet, low voice he had heard call him "love" out of the darkness should in the broad common day scarce seem real to poor Wat Gordon of Lochinvar? He had passed through so many things to hear it. Also, ever since the death of Little Marie, he knew the accent of the voice that speaks not for the sake of "making love," but which unconsciously and inevitably reveals love in every syllable.
Wat had made love in his time, and ladies of beauty and repute not a few—my Lady Wellwood among the number—had made love to him. But he knew the difference now.
For love which must needs be "made" bears alwaysthe stamp of manufacture. True love, on the other hand, is a city set on a hill; it cannot be hid, and this is why the love-glance of a maiden's eye so eternally confutes the philosophers, and ofttimes lays the lives of the mighty, for making or marring, in the hollow of very little hands.
The day that succeeded this night adventure was a long one both for Wat and Kate. For the girl had been even less prepared for the astonishing event of the night than Wat himself. Providence, by the hand of Mistress Alister McAlister, had certainly worked strangely. Indeed, the only person wholly unmoved was that lady herself. She bustled about the flags of her kitchen, slapping them almost contemptuously with her broad bare feet, busy as a bee with her baking and brewing, like the tidy, thrifty,"eident"CAyrshire good-wife that she was. Not a glance at Kate revealed that she had been instrumental in opening a new chapter in two lives only the night before.
CDiligent.
CDiligent.
When, midway through the forenoon, Alister brought his bulky body to the door-step, his loving wife drove him off again to the gateway of the tower with an aphorism which is held of the highest repute in the parish of Colmonel:
"Na, na, come na here for your brose—e'en get your meal o' meat where ye work your wark!"
And the stoop-shouldered giant coolly retreated without a word of protest, merely helping himself as he went out to a double handful of oatmeal from his wife's bake-board, for all the world like a theftuous school-boy, who keeps the while one eye on the master. With this he took his way to the spring which trickled down by the castle wall. And there, very deliberately and philosophically, he proceeded to make himself a dish of cold"drammoch" on the smooth surface of a stone which the water had hollowed.
"And mony is the hungry mouth that would be glad of it," said he, by way of grace after meat. For Alister was of the excellent and approven opinion that a dinner of herbs by the dikeside is better than a banquet of Whitehall with the sauce of an angry woman's tongue for seasoning thereto.
But when Bess Landsborough brought the prisoner his farles of cake and cool buttermilk (for it was "kirning day"), she took out also a handful of crisp bannocks for her husband. These she thrust under his nose with the sufficient and comprehensive monosyllable, "Hae!" And Alister accepted the act as at once honorable amend and judicious apology.
Nor was Alister behindhand in courtesy. For though the silent jailer did not utter a single word either to his wife or his prisoner, he drew hisskean dhuand cut a whang from the sweet-milk cheese which he kept by him. To this he added a horn of strong island spirit, which of a surety proved very much to the taste of the late master-at-arms to their several Highnesses Louis, King of France, and William of Orange, Stadtholder of the Netherlands.
Thereafter, with consideration particularly delicate, he withdrew out of earshot and sat on a knoll before the castle, leaving his wife to talk at leisure to her ancient sweetheart. For Alister McAlister was a man without jealousy. He knew that he could keep his wife, even as he kept his head in battle, with the little wee point of his knife and the broad, broad blade of his claymore. And as for ancient sweethearts, what cared he for a peck of them? Bess Landsborough might have had a score of lovers in the 'Lowlands low'; yet had she not chosen to leave them all and follow him up the braes—aye, and over the sea straits, threading the ultimate islands till atlast she had come to this barren holding of rock, scantily felted down with heather and peat, on the isle of Suliscanna?
But, on the other hand, Scarlett was not the man to lose his time, in spite of bonds and imprisonments.
"Ye are as weel-faured as ever, Bess. Ye were aye a bonny blithesome lass a' the days o' ye!" said he, complacently, as he munched his farles of cake and took sup about of usquebaugh from the horn and buttermilk from the pail.
"Havers!" said Mistress McAlister, "ye are an auld eneuch man to ken that ye canna blaw twice in my lug wi' the same flairdies. Ye forget I hae heard ye at that job before. And it lasted—hoo lang? Just e'en till your company rade awa' frae Girvan to Kirkcudbright, and then ye took up with Maggie Nicholson, the byre-lass o' Bombie, the very second week that ever ye were there! And telled her, I dare say, that she was weel-faured, blithe, and a bonny woman!"
"I see ye haena forgotten how to belie them that ye tried to break the hearts o', Bess Landsborough," said Scarlett, without, however, letting his broken heart interfere with a very excellent appetite. "Ye weel ken that ye sent me frae the door o' the Laggan wi' my tail atween my legs like a weel-lickit messan, and twa o' your ill-set cronies lookin' on at my shaming, too."
"I'm thinkin', my man John," retorted Bess Landsborough, "that ye had better say as little as ye can aboot that ploy. For the lasses were Mirren Semple o' the Auld Wa's and Meg Kennedy o' Kirriemore, that had come in the afternoon to keep me company. And as we sat talking ower ae thing after anither, we spak' amang ithers o' you, my braw trooper—Sergeant John Scarlett, no less, that rode so gallantly with the colors in his hand. And by this and that we had it made clear that ye had been for making up to a' the three o' us at once! An'so we compared your tricks. How ye had gotten doon on your knees and telled us that ye loved us best o' a' the world. Ye had kissed oor hands—at least, mine and Meg Kennedy's. But your favorite fashion was to take the skirts o' oor gouns and kiss the hem o' them, swearin' that ye wad raither kiss the border o' oor cloaks than the mouth o' the grandest woman in Scotland. (A' the three o' us!) Then ye asked for a curl cut off aboon our brows—at least, frae mine and Mirren Semple's. For Meg Kennedy never had sic a thing in her life, but had aye flat, greasy hair, sleekit like amowdiewartDhingin' by the neck in a trap on a wat day. And her ye telled that ye couldna bide hair that wadna keep smooth, but was aye a'kinked and thrawn into devalls and curliewigs. Oh, sic a bonny, true-speakin', decent, mensefu' callant as the three o' us made ye oot to be! So when we had ye gye-and-weel through-hands, wha should ride up to the door but my gay lad himsel', this same braw cavalier. So Mirren and Meg and me, we gaed oot ontil the step and telled ye what we thocht o' ye. Ow aye, ye were a puir disjaskit cuif that day, Sergeant John Scarlett, for a' your silver spurs and your red sodjer's coat!"