“What ails ye, my leddy!” said Malcolm. “There’s naething here to hurt ye.”
“I saw a face,” she said, “—a white face!”
“Whaur?”
“Beyond you a little way—near the ground,” she answered, in a tremulous whisper.
“It’s as dark ’s pick!” said Malcolm, as if thinking it to himself. —He knew well enough that it must be the laird or Phemy, but he was anxious the marquis should not learn the secret of the laird’s refuge.
“I saw a face anyhow,” said Florimel. “It gleamed white for one moment, and then vanished.”
“I wonner ye didna cry oot waur, my leddy,” said Malcolm, peering into the darkness.
“I was too frightened. It looked so ghastly!—not more than a foot from the ground.”
“Cud it hae been a flash, like, frae yer ain een?”
“No; I am sure it was a face.”