'Gilbert, Gilbert,' she whispered, searching above her with her hands and opening her arms, 'clasp me closer. I cannot see thee, love, for the mist. I cannot feel your hand.'
I bent my ear. I thought she was gone from us. But, as from an infinite distance I heard the words come to me. They were the last, spoken with great relief.
'The mist has gone by, dear love! The mist has quite gone by!'
And she lay still, smiling most sweetly.
CHAPTER LII
HOME-COMING
The snows of another winter had fallen, frozen, and lain long ere they were at last whisked away by the winds of a brisk and bitter March. It was now again the springtime upon the face of the earth—the time of the earliest singing of the mavis, of the sweet piping of the blackbird on the tree. The grasses were green, too, over the unforgotten grave of our Marjorie. But we who loved her had won to a memory that was not now wholly sorrow. Specially we remembered the sweet and profitable end she had made, when after many days of bitter winter in her heart, forgiveness and love at last unsealed her bosom.
It had been a long winter for us all, because it behoved that I should go to London, there to be made one of His Majesty's new knights. For I had told all my tale to the King, being so charged by the Earl John.
'Yet,' said he, 'keep ever your thumb upon the matter of the Treasure of Kelwood. And I will keep mine right effectually upon Currie, the ill-conditioned thief thereof.'
And so he did, and for the same Laird of Kelwood's sake chiefly, he set to mending and patching our old tower of defence on Craig Ailsa, in which he gave one Hamilton the charge of him as prisoner, together with John Dick the traitor and two or three more.