“Here’s my father,” she said, quickly sitting at the harpsichord again, with her face away from it and the candle-light. Into the room stepped the General, never knowing he had come upon a storm. Their silence surprised him. He looked suspiciously at the lad, who still stood on the floor with his hat in his hand.
“You’re not going yet, Islay?” said he, and there was no answer.
“Have you two quarrelled?” he asked, again glancing at his daughter’s averted face.
Young Islay stammered his reply. “I have been a fool, General, that’s all,” said he. “I brought the manners of the Inn, as your daughter says, into your house, and—”
The father caught him by the sleeve and bent a most stern eye.
“Well, well?” he pushed.
“And—the rest, I think, should be between yourself and me,” said Young Islay, looking at Nan now with her back to them, and he and the father went out of the room.
CHAPTER XXV—THE EAVESDROPPER
There was no moon, but the sky hung thick with stars, and the evening was a rare dusk where bush and tree stood half revealed, things sinister, concealing the terrific elements of dreams. Over the hills came Gilian, a passionate pilgrim of the night. The steeps, the gullies, the hazel thickets he trod were scarcely real for him, he passed them as if in a swoon, he felt himself supreme, able to step from ben to ben, inspired by the one exaltation that puts man above all toils, fears, weariness and doubts, brother of the April eagle, cousin-german of the remote and soaring star.