(And yet, by my troth, 'twas a sunny day by the feel of it, and the birds were chirming on every tree!)
The gentleman put his hands on the girl's shoulder and looked deep in her eyes, thinking hard for a wee, and biting at his low lip in a nervous way.
“At night,” said he, “I speak to you of chase and the country-side's gossip. We have sometimes neighbours in our house as now,—old Askaig's goodwife and the Nun from Inishail—a good woman and pious.”
Up went the lady's head, and she laughed bitter and long.
“My good husband,” she said, in a weary way, “you are like all that wear trews; you have never trained your tracking but to woodcraft, or else you had found the wild-kit in a woman's heart.”
“There's my love, girl, and I think you love—”
“Tuts, man! I talked not of that. Love is—love, while it lasts, and ye brag of Askaig's wife and the Nun (good Lord!), and the old harridans your cousins from Lochow!”
“'Tis but a tirrivie of yours, my dear,” said the man, kindly, kissing her on the teeth, and she with her hands behind her back. “Tomorrow the saddle, Sir Claymore, and the south country! Hark ye, sweet, I'll fetch back the most darling thing woman ever dreamt of.”
“What might his name be?” asked the girl, laughing, but still with a bitterness, and the two went round to the ditch-brig and in-by.
Adventurer heard the little fine airs coming from the west, coiling, full of sap-smell, crooning in turret and among the grassy gable-tops, and piping into the empty windows.