“But didn’t Allister’s father kill him?”
“No. He thought better of it, and didn’t. He was very angry for a while, but he got over it in time. And Allister became a great man, and because of what he had done, he was called Allister MacLeod no more, but Sir Worm Wymble. And when he died,” concluded Kirsty, “he was buried under the tomb in your father’s church. And if you look close enough, you’ll find a wimble carved on the stone, but I’m afraid it’s worn out by this time.”
CHAPTER XI
The Kelpie
Silence followed the close of Kirsty’s tale. Wee Davie had taken no harm, for he was fast asleep with his head on her bosom. Allister was staring into the fire, fancying he saw the whorls of the wimble heating in it. Turkey was cutting at his stick with a blunt pocket-knife, and a silent whistle on his puckered lips. I was sorry the story was over, and was growing stupid under the reaction from its excitement. I was, however, meditating a strict search for the wimble carved on the knight’s tomb. All at once came the sound of a latch lifted in vain, followed by a thundering at the outer door, which Kirsty had prudently locked. Allister, Turkey, and I started to our feet, Allister with a cry of dismay, Turkey grasping his stick.
“It’s the kelpie!” cried Allister.
But the harsh voice of the old witch followed, something deadened by the intervening door.
“Kirsty! Kirsty!” it cried; “open the door directly.”
“No, no, Kirsty!” I objected. “She’ll shake wee Davie to bits, and haul Allister through the snow. She’s afraid to touch me.”