‘She came back,’ continued Peebles--speaking slowly, that the words might better penetrate the stunned intelligence of his companion--‘she came back a’ that weary way just to see the face and hear the voice o’ the bairn she’d suffered for eighteen years ago. But, laddie, she’s had strange news! You don’t ken all the sorrowfu’ story. I tauld you, when that young cub, your cousin, taunted you wi’ the accident o’ your birth, never to think shame o’ your mother. I’ve had no chance since to tell you more; I must tell it noo. Your mother was entrapped by a sham marriage--or, at least, the marriage was believed to be a sham. It was Blake of Blake’s Hall who officiated as priest. Somehow, Moya surmised that Blake might really have been a priest, and asked me to gang till him and speer if it was so. I went this afternoon and saw him, and he confessed that he had been in holy orders, and that, though the Bishop had ta’en his cure o’ souls from him, he had never been legally unfrocked. D’ye ken what _that_ means, laddie?’ ‘My brain’s reeling,’ said Desmond; ‘I understand nothing.’ ‘It means,’ cried the old man, his voice breaking with glad emotion--‘it means that you’re Desmond Conseltine, my master’s legitimate son and heir, the next Lord Kilpatrick! Oh, laddie, it’s brave news--it’s brave news--and my heart was just bursting to tell it!’ Desmond spoke no word, and his silence after the communication of the tidings a little frightened his old friend, who peered into his face as they walked on quietly side by side. ‘Hae ye nothing to say, Desmond?’ he asked. ‘What can I say?’ asked Desmond. ‘Where is my mother?’ he asked suddenly. ‘Is it to her that ye’re taking me?’ ‘Ay,’ said Peebles. ‘We’re gaun to Larry’s mill, and there we’ll find her. Desmond, my man, she mustn’t stay there. There’s danger abroad.’ They were in the middle of the wide, waste country, but the old man could not repress the searching look he cast around him. ‘She has ill-wishers, blackguards, who’ll stick at nothing to gain their cruel ends. Blake told me this afternoon of a thing I find it hard to credit. Your uncle, Richard Conseltine, and his son, and that scoundrel Feagus, _know_ that Moya’s alive, and where she’s living. Feagus saw her wi’ me in the kirkyard, and listened to our talk. Blake thinks they might molest her while she’s there asleep! We’ll just hope it’s nothing but one of his drunken havers, but I’ve kent Richard Conseltine for well-nigh thirty years, and, man, he’s a mean creature. There’s not much he’d stick at, I’m thinking, for the price is the title and estates of Kilpatrick. Anyway, ’tis just sober prudence to warn Moya and get her awa’ oot o’ danger. Her proper place is the Castle, but if she’ll no consent to gang there, we’ll just find her another shelter for awhile.’