“She hates him—weel, I never knew ony that loved a Dalrymple—they say Lord Stair’s mither wad sit on her husband’s judgment seat in the likeness o’ a black cat—an she hated him—there is somewhat uncanny in the bluid—ye couldna’ love a Dalrymple.”
“Yet Lord Stair is the handsomest gentleman in Scotland, Peggy,” smiled Breadalbane.
“Weel—he is na winning—an there is too much of the auld Viscount, wha made his neck awry striving to listen to the divil, aboot him.”
“The divil must be Lord Stair’s advocate noo—for there is no one else in Scotland will be.”
A silence while they gazed at the paling sky through the long windows; then Breadalbane spoke.
“Peggy—when we gang back to the Hielands—we’ll ride through the Glen o’ Weeping, ye and I—and ye shall hae anither picture o’ it to think on after, when the badges and music o’ the Campbells glitter and ring through the ruins o’ Glencoe.”
“Jock—I am a fule—I dinna regret.”
“Peggy—my dear, my dear!”
She looked up at him through the vague gray light.
“Jock!” she said passionately. “I am content—an’ no afraid o’ the living or the—dead.”