But the Duke and other nobles came and pressed her, and Jean whispered to her not to show herself a fule body, and disgrace herself before the English, setting the harp before her and attending to the strings. Eleanor’s fingers then played over them in a dreamy, fitful way, that made the old Earl raise his head and say—
‘That twang carries me back to King Harry’s tent, and the good old time when an Englishman’s sword was respected.’
‘’Tis the very harp,’ said Sir Patrick; ‘ay, and the very tune—’
‘Come, Elleen, begin. What gars thee loiter in that doited way?’ insisted Jean. ‘Come, “Up atween.”’
And, led by her sister in spite of herself, almost, as it were, without volition, Eleanor’s sweet pathetic voice sang—
‘Up atween yon twa hill-sides, lass,
Where I and my true love wont to be,
A’ the warld shall never ken, lass,
What my true love said to me.
‘Owre muckle blinking blindeth the ee, lass,
Owre muckle thinking changeth the mind,
Sair is the life I’ve led for thee, lass,
Farewell warld, for it’s a’ at an end.’
Her voice had been giving way through the last verse, and in the final line, with a helpless wail of the harp, she hid her face, and sank back with a strange choked agony.
‘Why, Elleen! Elleen, how now?’ cried Jean. ‘Cousin Lilias, come!’
Lady Drummond was already at her side, and the Duchess and Lady Salisbury proffering essences and cordials, the gentlemen offering support; but in a moment or two Eleanor recovered enough to cling to Lady Drummond, muttering—
‘Oh, take me awa’, take me awa’!’