us than an hour too late! He would arrive at the right
time for him whose ways are not as our ways inasmuch as they are
greatly better! The sun went down and the stars came out, and the long
twilight began. But before he was a mile farther he became aware that
the sky had clouded over, the stars had vanished, and rain was at hand.
The day had been sultry, and relief was come. Lightning flamed out, and
darkness full of thunder followed. The storm was drawing nearer, but
his mare, though young and high-spirited, was too weary to be
frightened; the rain refreshed both, and they made a little more speed.
But it was dark night, with now grumbling now raging storm, before they
came where, had it been light, Donal would have looked to see the
castle.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

IN THE NIGHT.

When he reached the town, he rode into the yard of the Morven Arms, and
having found a sleepy ostler, gave up his mare: he would be better
without her at the castle!--whither he was setting out to walk when the
landlord appeared.

"We didna luik to see you, sir, at this time!" he said.

"Why not?" returned Donal.

"We thoucht ye was awa' for the simmer, seein' ye tuik the yoong
gentleman wi' ye, an' the yerl himsel' followt!"

"Where is he gone?" asked Donal.

"Oh! dinna ye ken, sir? hae na ye h'ard?"

"Not a word."

"That's verra strange, sir!--There's a clean clearance at the castel.
First gaed my lord Forgue, an' syne my lord himsel' an' my lady, an'
syne gaed the hoosekeeper--her mither was deein', they said. I'm
thinkin' there maun be a weddin' to the fore. There was some word o'
fittin' up the auld hoose i' the toon, 'cause lord Forgue didna care
aboot bein' at the castel ony langer. It's strange ye haena h'ard, sir!"

Donal stood absorbed in awful hearing. Surely some letter must have
miscarried! The sure and firm-set earth seemed giving way under his
feet.

"I will run up to the castle, and hear all about it," he said. "Look
after my mare, will you?"

"But I'm tellin' ye, sir, ye'll fin' naebody there!" said the man.
"They're a' gane frae the hoose ony gait. There's no a sowl aboot that
but deif Betty Lobban, wha wadna hear the angel wi' the last trump.
Mair by token, she's that feart for robbers she gangs til her bed the
minute it begins to grow dark, an' sticks her heid 'aneth the
bed-claes--no 'at that maks her ony deifer!"

"Then you think there is no use in going up?"

"Not the smallest," answered the inn-kee