“I would give thee the choicest of the world,” she would say. “What is too good for my heroes, O heroes of the myrtle-badge?”
“Sit down and pick,” John Splendid bade her once, putting a roysterer’s playful arm round her waist, and drawing her to the fire where a dinner stewed.
Up she threw her claws, and her teeth were at his neck with a weasel’s instinct But she drew back at a gleam of reason.
“Oh, darling, darling,” she cried, patting him with her foul hands, “did I not fancy for the moment thou wert of the spoilers of my home and honour—thou, the fleet foot, the avenger, the gentleman with an account to pay—on thee this mother’s blessing, for thee this widow’s prayers!”
M’Iver was more put about at her friendliness than at her ferocity, as he shook his plaiding to order and fell back from her worship.
“I’ve seldom seen a more wicked cat,” said he; “go home, grandam, and leave us to our business. If they find you in Lochaber they will gralloch you like a Yule hind.”
She leered, witch-like, at him, clutched suddenly at his sword-hilt, and kissed it with a frenzy of words, then sped off, singing madly as she flew.
We left the Dark Dame on Levenside as we ferried over to Lochaber, and the last we saw of her, she stood knee-deep in the water, calling, calling, calling, through the grey dun morning, a curse on Clan Donald and a blessing on Argile.
His lordship sat at the helm of a barge, his face pallid and drawn with cold, and he sighed heavily as the beldame’s cries came after us.
“There’s little of God’s grace in such an omen,” said he, in English, looking at the dim figure on the shore, and addressing Gordon.