“Why, what meaning are you at?” cried the man, bewildered.
“Who will Jasper Morgan be but the son of Stanley Morgan!”
“Stanley Morgan!… Stanley Morgan! I am no wiser. Do you wish to send me mad, man! Speak out!… out with it!”
“Why, Gorromalt, what is Drumdoon’s name?”
“Drumdoon… Why, Sir Ewan… Ah no, for sure ’tis now that English bread-taker, that southern land-snatcher, who calls himself Lord Greycourt. And what then?… will it be for…”
“Aren’t you for knowing his name?… No?… Campbell, man, it is Morgan … Morgan.”
All this time Aunt Elspeth had sat silent. She now gave a low cry. Her husband turned and looked at her. “Go into the house,” he said harshly; “this will not be the time for whimpering; no, by God! it is not the time for whimpering, woman.”
She rose, and walked feebly over to Mr Stewart.
“Tell me all,” she said. Ah, grief to see the pain in her old, old eyes—and no tears there at all, at all.
“When this man Jasper Morgan, that is son to Lord Greycourt, came here, it was to track a stricken doe. And now all is over. There is this note only. It is for Morag.”