“What country is that?” I asked.
“My country and yours,” said she.
“This is my day for discoveries, I think,” said I, “for I always thought the name of it was Scotland.”
“Scotland is the name of what you call Ireland,” she replied. “But the old ancient true name of this place that we have our foot-soles on, and that our bones are made of, will be Alban. It was Alban they called it when our forefathers will be fighting for it against Rome and Alexander; and it is called so still in your own tongue that you forget.”
“Troth,” said I, “and that I never learned!” For I lacked heart to take her up about the Macedonian.
“But your fathers and mothers talked it, one generation with another,” said she. “And it was sung about the cradles before you or me were ever dreamed of; and your name remembers it still. Ah, if you could talk that language you would find me another girl. The heart speaks in that tongue.”
I had a meal with the two ladies, all very good, served in fine old plate, and the wine excellent, for it seems that Mrs. Ogilvy was rich. Our talk, too, was pleasant enough; but as soon as I saw the sun decline sharply and the shadows to run out long, I rose to take my leave. For my mind was now made up to say farewell to Alan; and it was needful I should see the trysting wood, and reconnoitre it, by daylight. Catriona came with me as far as to the garden gate.
“It is long till I see you now?” she asked.
“It is beyond my judging,” I replied. “It will be long, it may be never.”
“It may be so,” said she. “And you are sorry?”