Lady Florimel began to fear she must have allowed the fisher-lad more liberty than was proper, seeing he dared avow that he knew the heart of a lady of her position by his own. But indeed Malcolm was wrong, for in the scale of hearts, Lady Florimel’s was far below his. She stepped quite within the door, and was on the point of shutting it, but something about the youth restrained her, exciting at least her curiosity; his eyes glowed with a deep, quiet light, and his face, even grand at the moment, had a greater influence upon her than she knew. Instead therefore of interposing the door between them, she only kept it poised, ready to fall-to the moment the sanity of the youth should become a hair’s-breadth more doubtful than she already considered it. “It’s a’ pairt o’ ae thing, my leddy,” Malcolm resumed. “The herrin’s like the fowk ’at cairries the mate an’ the pooder an’ sic like for them ’at does the fechtin’. The hert o’ the leevin’ man’s the place whaur the battle’s foucht, an’ it’s aye gaein’ on an’ on there atween God an’ Sawtan; an’ the fish they haud fowk up till ’t----” “Do you mean that the herrings help you to fight for God?” said Lady Florimel with a superior smile. “Aither for God or for the deevil, my leddy--that depen’s upo’ the fowk themsels. I say it hauds them up to fecht, an’ the thing maun be fouchten oot. Fowk to fecht maun live, an’ the herrin’ hauds the life i’ them, an’ sae the catchin’ o’ the herrin’ comes in to be a pairt o’ the battle.” “Wouldn’t it be more sensible to say that the battle is between the fishermen and the sea, for the sake of their wives and children?” suggested Lady Florimel supremely. “Na, my leddy, it wadna be half sae sensible, for it wadna justifee the grandur that hings ower the fecht. The battle wi’ the sea’s no sae muckle o’ an affair. An’, ’deed, gien it warna that the wives an’ the verra weans hae themsels to fecht i’ the same battle o’ guid an’ ill, I dinna see the muckle differ there wad be atween them an’ the fish, nor what for they sudna ate ane anither as the craturs i’ the watter du. But gien ’t be the battle _I_ say, there can be no pomp o’ sea or sky ower gran’ for ’t; an’ it’s a’ weel waured (_expended_) gien it but haud the gude anes merry an’ strong, an’ up to their wark. For that, weel may the sun shine a celestial rosy reid, an’ weel may the boatie row, an’ weel may the stars luik doon, blinkin’ an’ luikin’ again--ilk ane duin’ its bonny pairt to mak a man a richt-hertit, guid-willed sodger!” “And, pray, what may be your rank in this wonderful army?” asked Lady Florimel, with the air and tone of one humouring a lunatic. “I’m naething but a raw recruit, my leddy; but gien I hed my chice, I wad be piper to my reg’ment.” “How do you mean?” “I wad mak sangs. Dinna lauch at me, my leddy, for they’re the best kin’ o’ wapon for the wark ’at I ken. But I’m no a makar (_poet_), an’ maun content mysel’ wi’ duin’ my wark.”