“Bored craig? What’s that?”
“The rock wi’ a hole throu’ ’t. Ye ken the rock weel eneuch, my leddy. Ye was sittin’ at the fut o’ ’t, readin’ yer buik, as white ’s gien ye had been made o’ snaw. It cam to me that the rock was the sepulchre, the hole the open door o’ ’t, an’ yersel’ ane o’ the angels that had faulded his wings an’ was waitin’ for somebody to tell the guid news till, that he was up an awa’.”
“And what do I look like to-day?” she asked.
“Ow! the day, ye luik like some cratur o’ the storm; or the storm itsel’ takin’ a leevin’ shape, an’ the bonniest it could; or maybe, like Ahriel, gaein’ afore the win’, wi’ the blast in ’s feathers, rufflin’ them a’ gaits at ance.”
“Who’s Ahriel?”
“Ow, the fleein’ cratur i’ the Tempest! But in your bonny southern speech, I daursay ye wad ca’ him—or her, I dinna ken whilk the cratur was—ye wad ca’ ’t Ayriel?”
“I don’t know anything about him or her or it,” said Lady Florimel.
“Ye’ll hae a’ aboot him up i’ the libbrary there though,” said Malcolm. “The Tempest’s the only ane o’ Shakspere’s plays ’at I hae read, but it’s a gran’ ane, as Maister Graham has empooered me to see.”
“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Florimel, “I’ve lost my book!”
“I’ll gang back an’ luik for ’t this meenute, my leddy,” said Malcolm. “I ken ilka fit o’ the road we’ve come, an’ it’s no possible but I fa’ in wi’ ’t.—Ye’ll sune be hame noo, an’ it’ll hardly be on again afore ye win in,” he added, looking up at the clouds.