Catherine was silent—she became pale, deadly pale. I believe her hand grew cold at his touch, and that she would have looked to me; but she could not—she dared not. Something forbade it. But with me the spell was broken—the chain that bound me to her father's house, that withheld me from accompanying you to Edinburgh, was revealed. The uncouth stranger tore the veil from my eyes—he showed me the first glance of love in the mirror of jealousy. My teeth grated together—my eyes flashed—drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. My first impulse was to dash the intruder to the ground; but, to hide my feelings, I rose from my seat, and was about to leave the room.
'Sir, I ask your pardon,' said he—'I did not observe that ye was a stranger; but that accounts for the uncommon dryness o' my Katie. Yet, sir, ye mustna think that, though she is as modest as a bit daisy peeping out frae beneath a clod to get a blink o' the sun, but that we can hae our ain crack by our twa sels for a' that.'
'Sir Peter Blakely,' said Catherine, rising with a look expressive of indignation and confusion, 'what mean ye?'
'Oh, no offence, Miss Catherine—none in the world,' he was beginning to say, when, fortunately, her father entered, as I found that I had advanced a step towards the stranger, with I scarce know what intention; but it was not friendly.
'Sir Peter,' said Sir William, 'allow me to introduce you to my young friend, Mr. Fleming; he is one of us—a supporter of the good cause.'
He introduced me in like manner. I bowed—trembled—bowed again.
'I am very happy to see you, Mr. Fleming,' said Sir Peter—'very happy, indeed.' And he stretched out his huge collection of fingers to shake hands with me.
My eyes glared on his, and I felt them burn as I gazed on him. He evidently quailed, and would have stepped back; but I grasped his hand, and scarce knowing what I did, I grasped it as though a vice had held it. The blood sprang to his thin fingers, and his glazed orbs started farther from their sockets.
'Save us a'! friend! friend! Mr Fleming! or what do they ca' ye?' he exclaimed in agony; 'is that the way you shake hands in your country? I would hae ye to mind my fingers arena made o' cauld iron.
The cold and the snow had done half the work with his fingers before, and the grasp I gave them squeezed them into torture; and he stood shaking and rattling them in the air, applying them to his lips and again to the fire and, finally, dancing round the room, swinging his tormented hand, and exclaiming—