Gorromalt leaned forward to take it. But I had seen the wild look in Morag’s eyes, and I snatched it from Mr Stewart, and gave it to my dear, who slipped it beneath her kerchief.
Sullenly her father drew up, scowled, but said nothing.
“What else?” he asked, turning to the minister.
“She is dying.”
“Dying!”
“Ay, alas, alas—the mist is on the hill—the mist is on the hill—and she so young, too, and so fair, ay, and so sweet and——”
“That will do, Allan Stewart! That will do!… It is dying she is, you are for telling us! Well, well, now, and she the plaything o’ Jasper Morgan, the son of the man there at Drumdoon, the man who wants to drive me away from here … this new man … this, this lord … he … to drive me away, who have the years and years to go upon, ay, for more than six hundred weary long years——”
“Muireall is dying, Archibald Campbell. Will you be coming to see her, who is your very own?”
“And for why is she dying?”
“She could not wait.”