“Ay, ay, Campbell: ay, ay, I am speaking … I am for the telling … but … but, see you, Gorromalt, be pitiful … be …”
Gorromalt rose. I never realised before how tall he was. There was height to him, like unto that of a son of Anak.
“Well, well, well, it is just for telling you I’ll be. Sit down, Gorromalt, sit down, Mr Campbell, sit down, man, sit down!… Ah, sure now, that is better. Well, well, God save us all from the sin that is in us: but … ah, mothering heart, it is saving you I would be if I could, but … but …”
“But what!” thundered Gorromalt, with a voice that brought Maisie and Kirsteen out of the byre, where they were milking the kye.
“He has the mercy: He only! And it is this, poor people: it is this. Muireall has come to sorrow.”
“What sorrow is the sorrow that is on her?”
“The sorrow of woman.”
A terrible oath leapt from Gorromalt’s lips. His wife sat in a stony silence, her staring eyes filming like those of a stricken bird. Morag put her left hand to her heart.
Suddenly Archibald Campbell turned to his daughter.
“Morag, what is the name of that man whom Muireall came to know, when she and you went to that Sodom, that Gomorrha, which men call London?”