‘It’s no aften, Kirsty, ye tell me what I ken as weel ’s yersel!’ returned Francis.
‘Weel, Francie, ye maun tell me something the night!—Gien it wudna mismuve ye, I wad fain ken hoo ye wan throu that day we pairtit here.’
Without a moment’s hesitation, Francis began the tale—giving her to know, however, that in what took place there was much he did not understand so as to tell it again.
When he made an end, Kirsty rose and said,
‘Wad ye please to sit upo’ that stane, Francie!’
In pure obedience he rose from the heather, and sat upon the stone.
She went behind him, and clasped his head, round the temples, with her shapely, strong, faithful hands.
‘I ken ye noo for a man, Francis. Ye hae set yersel to du his wull, and no yer ain: ye’re a king; and for want o’ a better croon, I croon ye wi my twa han’s.’
Little thought Kirsty how near she came, in word and deed, to the crowning of Dante by Virgil, as recorded toward the close of the ‘Purgatorio.’
Then she came round in front of him, he sitting bewildered and taking no part in the solemn ceremony save that of submission, and knelt slowly down before him, laying her head on his knees, and saying,—