“Aye, cheer, ye fules!” shrilled the Aged Soul, flourishing his hat. “Beller for ol’ Pen, an’ dannel ’im as doan’t, says oi!”
“Hoot-toot, Johnnie-man,” quoth Sir Hector as they crossed the little garden, “ye kept us waitin’ a’ the day whiles ye made up your mind, it seems-an’ me in ma vera best clo’es, y’ ken—but ’twas worth it, lad, and—why, what now?” For old Penelope had paused suddenly to take my lady’s hand to gaze on it through gathering tears and kiss it with strange fervour.
“What, John—a ring?” exclaimed Sir Hector—“an’ a weddin’-ring, forbye—already? Why, man, doth it mean——”
“Ah, Sir Hector,” cried old Penelope, “it do mean as the dead, as liveth for ever, hath spoke from beyond his grave ... it meaneth, God be praised, that true love is immortal indeed!” So, hand in hand, the old woman and the young entered the cottage.
“But, Johnnie, wull ye be for tellin’ me that it means——?”
“That they are married, sir,” answered the little Duchess—“wooed and won and wedded, sir! Which is great joy to me, for our Herminia hath found a man shall rule her rigorously at last; in a word, master her megrims, control, curb and constrain her contrariness as only a masterful man might.”
“Wooed and won ... rule rigorously,” murmured Sir Hector, “curb and constrain——”
“Well, sir, well, why must you mop and mow and mutter like a mere male? Wouldst not do the same, sir?”
Then, looking down into the little Duchess’s strangely youthful eyes, Sir Hector emitted that sound to which no one but a true-born Scot may give utterance, and which, so far as poor words go, may be roughly translated thus:
“Umph-humph!” quoth Sir Hector Lauchlan MacLean.