“I’ll have a vizzy from an upper window of who this may be,” said John, sticking a piece of pine in the fire till it flared at the end, and hurrying with it thus lighted up the stair. I followed at his heels, while the rest remained below ready to give whatever reception was most desirable to the disturbers of our night’s repose. The window we went to looked out on the most utter blackness, a blackness that seemed to stream in at the window as we swung it softly back on its hinge. M’Iver put oat his head and his torch, giving a warder’s keek at the door below where the knocking continued. He drew in his head quickly and looked at me with astonishment. “It’s a woman,” said he. “I never saw a campaign where so many petticoats of one kind or another were going. Who, in God’s name, can this one be, and what’s her errand to Dalness at this hour? One of its regular occupants would scarcely make such to-do about her summons.” “The quickest answer could be got by asking her,” I said. “And about a feint?” he said, musing. “Well, we can but test it.” We went down and reported to our companions, and Gordon was for opening the door on the moment “A wanderer like ourselves,” said he, “perhaps a widow of our own making from Glencoe. In any case a woman, and out in the storm.” We stood round the doors while M’Iver put back the bars and opened as much as would give entry to one person at a time. There was a loud cry, and in came the Dark Dame, a very spectacle of sorrow! Her torn garments clung sodden to her skin, her hair hung stringy at her neck, the elements had chilled and drowned the frenzied gleaming of her eyes. And there she stood in the doorway among us, poor woman, poor wretch, with a frame shaking to her tearless sobs!