“His name was Jasper Morgan.”
“Has she ever seen him since?”
“I think so.”
“You think? What will you be thinking for, girl! Think! There will be time enough to think while the lichen grows grey on a new-fall’n rock! Out with it! Out with it! Have they met?… Has he been here?… is he the man?”
There was silence then. A plover wheeled by, plaining aimlessly. Maisie the milk-lass ran forward, laughing.
“Ah, ’tis my wee Seorsa,” she cried. “Seorsa! Seorsa! Seorsa!”
Gorromalt took a stride forward, his face shadowy with anger, his eyes ablaze.
“Get back to the kye, you wanton wench!” he shouted savagely. “Get back, or it is having my gun I’ll be and shooting that pee-wit of yours, that lennavan-Seorsa!”
Then, shaking still, he turned to Morag.
“Out with it, girl! What do you know?”