d, and the writhen features and wild eyes which
were visible from under her curch, would have made her no inadequate
representative of the spirit which gave name to the valley. But
Mr. Tyrie instantly knew her as the Woman of the Tree, the widow of
MacTavish Mhor, the now childless mother of Hamish Bean. I am not
sure whether the minister would not have endured the visitation of
the Cloght-dearg herself, rather than the shock of Elspat's
presence, considering her crime and her misery. He drew up his horse
instinctively, and stood endeavouring to collect his ideas, while a few
paces brought her up to his horse's head.

"Michael Tyrie," said she, "the foolish women of the Clachan [The
village; literally, the stones.] hold thee as a god--be one to me, and
say that my son lives. Say this, and I too will be of thy worship; I
will bend my knees on the seventh day in thy house of worship, and thy
God shall be my God."

"Unhappy woman," replied the clergyman, "man forms not pactions with his
Maker as with a creature of clay like himself. Thinkest thou to chaffer
with Him, who formed the earth, and spread out the heavens, or that thou
canst offer aught of homage or devotion that can be worth acceptance
in his eyes? He hath asked obedience, not sacrifice; patience under the
trials with which He afflicts us, instead of vain bribes, such as man
offers to his changeful brother of clay, that he may be moved from his
purpose."

"Be silent, priest!" answered the desperate woman; "speak not to me
the words of thy white book. Elspat's kindred were of those who crossed
themselves and knelt when the sacring bell was rung, and she knows that
atonement can be made on the altar for deeds done in the field. Elspat
had once flocks and herds, goats upon the cliffs, and cattle in the
strath. She wore gold around her neck and on her hair--thick twists, as
those worn by the heroes of old. All these would she have resigned to
the priest--all these; and if he wished for the ornaments of a gentle
lady, or the sporran of a high chief, though they had been great as
Macallum Mhor himself, MacTavish Mhor would have procured them, if
Elspat had promised them. Elspat is now poor, and has nothing to give.
But the Black Abbot of Inchaffray would have bidden her scourge her
shoulders, and macerate her feet by pilgrimage; and he would have
granted his pardon to her when he saw that her blood had flowed, and
that her flesh had been torn. These were the priest