"I will," replied Henry.
And the bluegown, waving his wand, continued on his journey, while the young man turned his steps, in fear, towards home. He again came to the cottage of Mossfell, and stood before the door. Margaret Bethune resided there, under the protection of old Dame Craigie. She was reputed an orphan; and, as such, she had secured the interest of the family at Riddlestain. By other claims she had secured the affection of the son; and never, until this night, had he observed in her conduct aught that excited any other feeling than love and respect, nor had what he had witnessed in any material degree altered the opinion he had formed of her. Yet, what object had she to serve by visiting the dark chambers of Falconcleugh with a wandering bluegown, at so late an hour of the night. He had heard from the servants at Riddlestain that she had been seen stealing from the old mansion at late hours; but she had uniformly avoided his inquiries for information. On this occasion, she might have gone to inquire as to the fate of Mansie, who had, apparently, been plunged into the waters. Yet why did the beadsman avoid the subject, and not offer satisfaction on a matter of importance to any one possessed of a spark of humanity? The danger of his own situation did not prevent him from indulging in these thoughts; and, as he stood and listened, he ascertained that the inmates had not gone to bed.
"I will see," he muttered, "whether Margaret and her old friend observe the same silence."
And he rapped at the door. He got admittance; and, seating himself by the fire—
"I am disturbed," he said. "As I returned this night from the scene of the death of my friend, I stood, with old Carey the beadsman, over the quarry of Falconcleugh, watching the motions of the old cripple who lives in that strange place. We heard a plash in the waters, and saw no more of him. Is it possible that he is drowned, and I, confused by selfish fears for my own safety, neglected to rouse my father's servants to make search for a fellow-creature."
He watched the countenance of Margaret as he spoke and finished. There was no trace there of the effects of a sensibility which usually responded to the minutest detail of suffering. He waited for her explanation of the object of her own visit to the quarry, but none was forthcoming.
"Ye needna fear for auld Mansie," said the dame. "If every plash o' a loose stane o' the auld wa's—ay, or a heughbane o' the auld Melvilles, or broken branch in the waters o' the quarry—were a sign o' his death, twenty times has he dreed the doom."
"You spoke of your own danger, Henry," said Margaret, retreating from the subject. "Is it from the persecutors of our secret, holy faith, who have this day burned Hamilton at St. Andrew's?"
"It is—it is, Margaret," rejoined the youth, as he rose, dissatisfied at what he supposed a trait of disingenuousness or secret mystery. "I may be compelled to leave Scotland, if I would not follow my friend through the flames. But old Carey the beadsman, or Mansie the cripple, may console you in my absence." And, with these words, he hastened to the door.
"What mean you, Henry?" said the girl, as she hastened after him, and stopped him, by seizing tremblingly his hand.