Stories of water-kelpies keep crowding through his mind, and the words and weird music of a song he has heard,—
“Kelpie dwells in a wondrous hall
Beneath the shimmering stream;
His song is the song of the waterfall,
And his light its rainbow gleam.
The rowans stoop,
And the long ferns droop
Their feathery heads in the spray.”
And now he jumps to his feet. He has recollected himself, he was going for the doctor for poor Nancy, and this is the stream he was looking for. He must seek the ford. He cannot have far to go now. Once over the river, and a run will take him to Dugald’s cottage.
But stay; what cares he for the ford? He will plunge into the deepest pool, and swim across. He is hot; he is burning; it will cool him.
He walks on a little way, and still the kelpie song runs in his brain. The trees seem singing it; the wind keeps singing it; the driving clouds nod to its music.
“Where the foam flakes are falling,
Falling, falling, falling,
Falling for ever and ay—”
Ha! here is a deep dark pool at last. Why, yonder is the kelpie himself beckoning to him, and the maiden.
“When forest depths were dim,
For love of her long golden hair—”
The poor dog divines his intention. He rushes betwixt him and the cold black water, uttering a cry that is almost human in its plaintive pathos.