“Because of the ancient prophecy, my lord.”
“I can’t recall a single point of the story.”
“I wish old Eppie were alive to tell it,” said Mrs Courthope.
“Don’t you know it then?”
“Yes, pretty well; but my English tongue can’t tell it properly. It doesn’t sound right out of my mouth. I’ve heard it a good many times too, for I had often to take a visitor to her room to hear it, and the old woman liked nothing better than telling it. But I couldn’t help remarking that it had grown a good bit even in my time. The story was like a tree: it got bigger every year.”
“That’s the way with a good many stories,” said the marquis. “But tell me the prophecy at least.”
“That is the only part I can give just as she gave it. It’s in rhyme. I hardly understand it, but I’m sure of the words.”
“Let us have them then, if you please.”
Mrs Courthope reflected for a moment, and then repeated the following lines:
“The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o’ cauld airn,
The ayr quha wad kythe a bastard and carena,
The mayd quha wad tyne her man and her bairn,
Lift the sneck, and enter, and fearna.”