There was a sound of pushing and scuffling, and an old woman carrying a clumsy wooden chair filled the doorway. She was short and thin, and had the remains of the most marked good looks.
The lady broke into a torrent of speech.
‘What do I want with that? Do you suppose I have come to such a pass that I cannot mount my horse without four wooden legs to help me up? Put it down, you old fool, and come here as I bid you—do you hear?’
Granny Stirk advanced steadily with the chair in front of her. She might have looked as though protecting herself with it had her expression been less decided.
‘Put it down, I tell you. God bless me, am I a cripple? Leave her head, sir—she will stand—and do me the favour to mount me.’
Gilbert complied, and, putting his hand under the stranger’s splashed boot, tossed her easily into the saddle. She sat a moment gathering up the reins and settling her skirt; then, with a hurried word of thanks, she trotted off, standing up in her stirrup as she went to look over at the mare’s feet. Granny had put down her burden and was staring at Gilbert with great interest.
‘Who is that lady?’ he inquired, when horse and rider had disappeared.
‘Yon’s Leddy Eliza Lamont,’ she replied, still examining him.
‘Ay; she bides at Morphie, away west by the river.’