ather not go into this still house where the lidless-eyed creatures are
lying in their awful sleep. Why does she laugh? Is it a matter for
laughing that a man should be stung by an adder, and all his life grow
black around him? For it is then that they put him in a grave; and
she--she stands with her foot on it! There is moonlight around; and the
jackdaws are wheeling overhead; our voices sound hollow in these dark
ruins. But you can hear this, sweetheart: shall I whisper it to you?
"_You are standing on the grave of Macleod._"

* * * * *

Lo! the grave opens! Why, Hamish, it was no grave at all, but only the
long winter; and now we are all looking at a strange thing away in the
south, for who ever saw all the beautiful flags before that are
fluttering there in the summer wind? Oh, sweetheart!--your hand--give me
your small, warm, white hand! See! we will go up the steep path by the
rocks; and here is the small white house; and have you never seen so
great a telescope before? And is it all a haze of heat over the sea; or
can you make out the quivering phantom of the lighthouse--the small gray
thing out at the edge of the world? Look! they are signalling now; they
know you are here; come out, quick! to the great white boards; and we
will send them over a message--and you will see that they will send back
a thousand welcomes to the young bride. Our ways are poor; we have no
satin bowers to show you, as the old songs say--but do you know who are
coming to wait on you? The beautiful women out of the old songs are
coming to be your handmaidens: I have asked them--I saw them in many
dreams--I spoke gently to them, and they are coming. Do you see them?
There is the bonnie Lizzie Lindsay, who kilted her coats o' green satin
to be off with young Macdonald; and Burd Helen--she will come to you
pale and beautiful; and proud Lady Maisry, that was burned for her true
love's sake; and Mary Scott of Yarrow, that set all men's hearts aflame.
See, they will take you by the hand. They are the Queen's Maries. There
is no other grandeur at Castle Dare.

* * * * *

Is this Macleod? They used to say that Macleod was a man! They used to
say he had not much fear of anything; but this is only a poor trembling
boy, a coward trembling at everything, and going away to London with a
lie on his lips. And they know how Sholto Macleod died, and how Roderick
Macleod died, and Ronald, and