“I canna answer ye a’ at ance, my leddy,” said Malcolm; “I maun tak time to think aboot it. But I ken brawly what ye mean.” Even as he spoke he withdrew, and, descending the mound, walked away beyond the bored craig, regardless now of the far-lessening sails and the sinking sun. The motes of the twilight were multiplying fast as he returned along the shore side of the dune, but Lady Florimel had vanished from its crest. He ran to the top: thence, in the dim of the twilight, he saw her slow retreating form, phantom-like, almost at the grated door of the tunnel, which, like that of a tomb, appeared ready to draw her in, and yield her no more.
“My leddy, my leddy,” he cried, “winna ye bide for ’t?”
He went bounding after her like a deer. She heard him call, and stood holding the door half open.
“It’s the battle o’ Armageddon, my leddy,” he cried, as he came within hearing distance.
“The battle of what?” she exclaimed, bewildered. “I really can’t understand your savage Scotch.”
“Hoot, my leddy! the battle o’ Armageddon ’s no ane o’ the Scots battles; it’s the battle atween the richt and the wrang, ’at ye read aboot i’ the buik o’ the Revelations.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” returned Lady Florimel in dismay, beginning to fear that her squire was losing his senses.
“It’s jist what ye was sayin’, my leddy: sic a pomp as yon bude to hing abune a gran’ battle some gait or ither.”
“What has the catching of fish to do with a battle in the Revelations?” said the girl, moving a little within the door.
“Weel, my leddy, gien I took in han’ to set it furth to ye, I wad hae to tell ye a’ that Mr Graham has been learnin’ me sin’ ever I can min’. He says ’at the whole economy o’ natur’ is fashiont unco like that o’ the kingdom o’ haven: its jist a gradation o’ services, an’ the highest en’ o’ ony animal is to contreebute to the life o’ ane higher than itsel’; sae that it’s the gran’ preevilege o’ the fish we tak, to be aten by human bein’s, an’ uphaud what’s abune them.”