"Old, old! childless and alone!" moaned the earl, crushed beneath the weight of sad thoughts and unavailing sorrow, as he covered his grey head beneath the coverlet, and sobbed heavily.
"Harold—husband," said a gentle voice, that thrilled through him, and tremblingly he started and looked up.
Lo! in the clear light of the midsummer night, there stood by his bedside the Countess Gunhilda, as he had last seen her, so fair and stately, with her Danish tunic of blue silk, her flowing mantle, and long lace veil, that fell over her shoulders from under her half-diadem, the gems of which sparkled in the light of the stars.
Beside her, but a little way behind, stood three tall and handsome girls, each of whom wore riding-hoods edged with pearls and long white veils, which they held upraised, as they surveyed him with sad and earnest eyes.
Believing that he saw but disembodied souls, the upbraiding spirits of his wife and their three daughters—for midsummer night is the time when demons, ghosts, and fairies are all supposed to be abroad,—the lonely earl uttered a cry of wild despair and fainted.
Yet they were no spirits whom he had seen, but the Countess Gunhilda and his three daughters, who, having heard of his sad and repentant condition, had hastened to visit and console him, and arrived thus in the night.
And with Thora, the youngest and the fairest, had come her husband—for she, too, was wedded to William Sinclair, Lord of Roslin; and thus from her descended the future Earls of Orkney, who were also Dukes of Oldenburg.
On returning to consciousness Morrar na Shean came to a new life of joy and happiness. With these came a more sincere repentance. He spent the remaining years of his life in endeavouring to atone for the atrocities of his youth, and died at a good old age when Alexander II. was King of Scotland—passing peacefully away, while the faces of his children and grandchildren were bowed in prayer around him.
Such is the story of Morrar na Shean, the Lord of the Venison.