“But why was he angry with the gentleman?” asked Allister.
“Because he liked her company better than he loved herself,” said Kirsty. “At least that was what the shepherd said, and that he ought to have seen her safe home. But he didn’t know that MacLeod’s father had threatened to kill him if ever he spoke to the girl again.”
“But,” said Allister, “I thought it was about Sir Worm Wymble—not Mr. MacLeod.”
“Sure, boy, and am I not going to tell you how he got the new name of him?” returned Kirsty, with an eagerness that showed her fear lest the spirit of inquiry should spread. “He wasn’t Sir Worm Wymble then. His name was—”
Here she paused a moment, and looked full at Allister.
“His name was Allister—Allister MacLeod.”
“Allister!” exclaimed my brother, repeating the name as an incredible coincidence.
“Yes, Allister,” said Kirsty. “There’s been many an Allister, and not all of them MacLeods, that did what they ought to do, and didn’t know what fear was. And you’ll be another, my bonnie Allister, I hope,” she added, stroking the boy’s hair.
Allister’s face flushed with pleasure. It was long before he asked another question.
“Well, as I say,” resumed Kirsty, “the father of her was very angry, and said she should never go and meet Allister again. But the girl said she ought to go once and let him know why she could not come any more; for she had no complaint to make of Allister; and she had agreed to meet him on a certain day the week after; and there was no post-office in those parts. And so she did meet him, and told him all about it. And Allister said nothing much then. But next day he came striding up to the cottage, at dinner-time, with his claymore (gladius major) at one side, his dirk at the other, and his little skene dubh (black knife) in his stocking. And he was grand to see—such a big strong gentleman I And he came striding up to the cottage where the shepherd was sitting at his dinner.