“O villain, villain!” cried Duncan. “Most deep and consummate villain! Can so much apparent goodness be but the mask of deceit and villainy? But—I must straightway question him! I will drag him from the disguise which he wears, and—and then!”
“Remember that solemn promise which you have this moment made to me,” said Anna, calmly taking his hand. “You see how wise it was in me to secure it. To be the innocent cause of awakening feud between kinsmen of blood so near, would indeed be a heavy affliction to me; and were any of that blood to be spilled—were thy blood to flow—but thou must keep thy solemn engagement to me; and thou must now pledge me thy word, that never till I give thee leave to do so wilt thou, even by a look, discover to anyone what I have now told thee.”
“Anna,” said Duncan, after some little hesitation, “I will promise you what you desire; but my promise is given on the faith of a counter-pledge, which I now expect to have from thee. Promise me, on thy part, that no such cause of offence shall be again offered to thee that thou dost not instantly tell me of it.”
“My present frankness should be my best pledge that I will do as thou wouldst have me,” said Anna. “But the promise thou hast given me must then be held as consequently renewed.”
“I am content,” said Duncan. “I am content to trust that you will not tie me down too rigidly.”
Guileless as Duncan Bane naturally was, he felt it no easy task to commence and to carry on a train of dissimulation with one with whom he had been on terms of open and unreserved intercourse of mind from his childhood, as I may say, save on the one subject of his love alone. Duncan dreaded that the very next meeting he should have with his cousin would throw him off his guard. He, therefore, proceeded forthwith to school himself as to the face and manner he should wear, and the words he should utter? and so successfully did he do so in his own judgment, that, after the first interview with his cousin was over, he congratulated himself that the deep dissatisfaction which he secretly felt had been entirely shrouded from him who had excited it. And certainly, whether it was so or not, the crafty Lachlan Dhu gave him no reason to believe that it was discovered.
It was on the vurra night after this, however, that the Laird of Ballindalloch was seated in the cap-house of the great round tower of the castle he had so lately built, engaged in some confidential talk with his faithful henchman, Ian Grant, when his favourite old sleuth-hound, that lay beside his chair, raised up his long heavy ears and growled; and soon afterwards a step was heard ascending the narrow screw stair leading to the small apartment where they were.
“See who is there, Ian,” said the laird, in answer to a gentle tap at the door.
Ian obeyed, and on opening it one of the domestics appeared to announce that a stranger, who refused to tell his name, had been brought, at his own request, to the castle guard-room, having expressed a wish to be admitted to a private conference with the laird.
“A stranger demands to have an interview with me after the watch is set, and yet refuses to tell who or what he is!” cried Ballindalloch. “By Saint Peter, but this smells of treachery, methinks! Yet let him appear, we fear him not; let him appear, I say,” repeated he, waving off the attendant. “Ian,” continued he after the man was gone, “look that your dirk be on your thigh.”