“It’s just the truth,” answered the Scotchman, sinking on his bench, “seventeen years wad na ha left her sa bonny, whil mysel an the guid wife ha sunk fra hale, middle-aged folk inta owld grey carlins—but then wha may the lassie be?”
“You spoke of a child!”
“Aye, gude faith, it’s the bairn grown to be what the mither was. Weel, weel, time maun ha it’s ain—but wha may be the ladie hersel? A-whow is it sae, an she sa bonny?”
“You remember her well then?” persisted Chaleco.
“Mind her, wherefore no what sud gin me forget her, or her gowden haired guidman, a bonnier pair n’er staid in shoon. It wad be na easy matter to forget them, I tell ye!”
“Then they were married?”
“Wha iver cud doubt it, and their bairn born here?” cried the staunch old man, proudly; “d’ye think we harbor lemans? There was guid reason why it sud na be clash’d about; na doot the Earl of Clare was na ane to put shame on an honest man’s name.”
“Then he told you that he was married to the lady?”
“Tell me, yes; wha but himself sud tell me?”
“And you will swear to this?” questioned Chaleco, allowing none of the eagerness that burned in his eyes to affect his voice.