"Trove went before him and stood against it.
"'Hear me, boy, 'tis better that ye let him sleep until the trumpet calls an' ye both stand with all the quick an' the dead.'
"'No, I have waited long, and I love—I love him,' Trove answered.
"Those fair young people knelt beside the old man, clinging to his hands.
"The good saint was crying.
"'I came not here to bring shame,' said he presently.
"'We honour and with all our souls we love you,' Trove answered.
"'Who shall stand before it?' said the old man. 'Behold—behold how Love hath raised the dead!' He flung off his cap and beard.
"'If ye will have it so, know ye that I—Roderick Darrel—am thy father.'"
"Now, sir, you may go. I wish ye merry Christmas!" said that old man of the hills.