'They row'd her in a pair o' sheets,
And tow'd her owre the wa';
But on the point o' Gordon's spear
She gat a deadly fa'.
O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
And cherry were her cheeks,
And clear, clear was her yellow hair,
Whereon the red blood dreeps.
Then wi' his spear he turned her owre;
O but her face was wan!
He said, "Ye are the first that e'er
I wish'd alive again."
He turned her owre and owre again,
O but her skin was white!
"I might hae spared that bonnie face
To hae been some man's delight.
"Busk and boun, my merry men a',
For ill dooms I do guess;—
I cannot look on that bonnie face
As it lies on the grass,"'—
What illustration could improve on that?—why, it burns clear as flame! Then, again, take the girl who was drowned by her sister in 'the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray'——"
At this point the silent and neglected Maisrie suddenly looked up—glancing from her grandfather to the young man in a curiously appealing way. She seemed to say 'Grandfather, you forget: it is not Balloray, it is Binnorie;' and again 'Vincent, he has forgotten: that is all.' But neither of them took any notice of her; nay, the younger man, in his insensate indignation and disappointment, would not look her way at all; while old George Bethune, with his mind fixed on those imaginary pictures, went on in a rapt fashion to repeat certain of the verses—
"Ye couldna see her yellow hair,
Balloray, O Balloray,
For gowd and pearls that were sae rare,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.
Ye couldna see her middle sma',
Balloray, O Balloray,
Her gowden girdle was sae braw,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.
Ye couldna see her lily feet,
Balloray, O Balloray,
Her gowden fringes were sae deep,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.
'Sair will they be, whae'er they be,
Balloray, O Balloray,
The hearts that live to weep for thee!'
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray!"
"It is like a picture by one of the pre-Raphaelites," Vincent said; and then the old man proceeded to talk of paper and type and binding, as if the new work were just ready for press.
But silence was not to reign for ever between those two. On their way home Mr. Bethune was talking of "The Demon Lover," of its alleged Italian origin, and of a suggestion he had seen somewhere that it was no forsaken sweetheart who had come to tempt the wedded wife, but a fiend adopting that disguise. When they reached the little parlour he began to search about for the volume in which "The Demon Lover" was thus treated; but could not find it; whereupon he went off upstairs, to see if it was not among his books and papers there. As soon as he had gone, Maisrie rose and came over to where the young man was standing by the fireplace.
"What have I done, Vincent?" she said.
"Oh, nothing," he made answer, avoiding her eyes.
"I have a right to know," she said, proudly.
"It is nothing," said he. "I—I made a mistake; that is all."