“God bless you, Elspat MacTavish!” She looked at the man as he addressed her in her native language, with the displeased air of one whose reverie is interrupted; but the traveller went on to say, “I bring you tidings of your son Hamish.” At once, from being the most uninteresting object, in respect to Elspat, that could exist, the form of the stranger became awful in her eyes, as that of a messenger descended from heaven, expressly to pronounce upon her death or life. She started from her seat, and with hands convulsively clasped together, and held up to Heaven, eyes fixed on the stranger’s countenance, and person stooping forward to him, she looked those inquiries which her faltering tongue could not articulate. “Your son sends you his dutiful remembrance, and this,” said the messenger, putting into Elspat’s hand a small purse containing four or five dollars. “He is gone! he is gone!” exclaimed Elspat; “he has sold himself to be the servant of the Saxons, and I shall never more behold him! Tell me, Miles MacPhadraick--for now I know you--is it the price of the son’s blood that you have put into the mother’s hand?” “Now, God forbid!” answered MacPhadraick, who was a tacksman, and had possession of a considerable tract of ground under his chief, a proprietor who lived about twenty miles off--“God forbid I should do wrong, or say wrong, to you, or to the son of MacTavish Mhor! I swear to you by the hand of my chief that your son is well, and will soon see you; and the rest he will tell you himself.” So saying, MacPhadraick hastened back up the pathway, gained the road, mounted his pony, and rode upon his way. CHAPTER III. Elspat MacTavish remained gazing on the money as if the impress of the coin could have conveyed information how it was procured.