"A horror came over him, with the conviction that he had spent a long lifetime in a night, and he hastened towards the lonely chapel, the priest of which, Father Michael, was his chief friend and confessor. At the little arched door of the holy cell he met a churchman, whose face he knew not; but to whom he said, trembling,—
"'Is not Father Michael here?'
"The priest gazed upon him with surprise, and then replied, after a pause,—
"'Father Michael Ochiltree, if it be he you mean, old man, is with the saints, I trust.'
"'Dead!'
"'He became dean of Dunblane, and thereafter bishop of that see,' continued the priest, with increasing surprise; ''tis an old story, my son—Bishop Michael died in 1430, and is interred in the choir of his cathedral.'
"'Holy father,' said the lord of Morton Hall, with greater agitation and bewilderment; 'what year of God is this?'
"'It is 1520.'
"'Swear it.'
"'I swear it to thee, strange old man—it is the seventh year of our king's reign.'