But Malcolm had early learned that a man’s will must, like a true monarch, rule down every rebellious movement of its subjects, and he was far from yielding to such inroads as now assailed him: still it was long before he fell asleep, and then only to dream without quite losing consciousness of his peculiar surroundings. He seemed to know that he lay in his own bed, and yet to be somehow aware of the presence of a pale woman in a white garment, who sat on the side of the bed in the next room, still and silent, with her hands in her lap, and her eyes on the ground. He thought he had seen her before, and knew, notwithstanding her silence, that she was lamenting over a child she had lost. He knew also where her child was,--that it lay crying in a cave down by the seashore; but he could neither rise to go to her, nor open his mouth to call. The vision kept coming and coming, like the same tune played over and over on a barrel organ, and when he woke seemed to fill all the time he had slept. About ten o’clock he was summoned to the marquis’s presence, and found him at breakfast with Lady Florimel. “Where did you sleep last night?” asked the marquis. “Neist door to the auld warlock,” answered Malcolm. Lady Florimel looked up with a glance of bright interest: her father had just been telling her the story. “You did!” said the marquis. “Then Mrs Courthope--did she tell you the legend about him?” “Ay did she, my lord.” “Well, how did you sleep?” “Middlin’ only.” “How was that?” “I dinna ken, ’cep it was ’at I was fule eneuch to fin’ the place gey eerie like.” “Aha!” said the marquis. “You’ve had enough of it! You won’t try it again!” “What’s that ye say, my lord?” rejoined Malcolm. “Wad ye hae a man turn ’s back at the first fleg? Na, na, my lord; that wad never du!” “Oh! then, you did have a fright?” “Na, I canna say that aither. Naething waur cam near me nor a dream ’at plaguit me--an’ it wasna sic an ill ane efter a’.” “What was it?” “I thocht there was a bonny leddy sittin’ o’ the bed i’ the neist room, in her nichtgoon like, an’ she was greitin’ sair in her hert, though she never loot a tear fa’ doon. She was greitin’ aboot a bairnie she had lost, an’ I kent weel whaur the bairnie was-- doon in a cave upo’ the shore, I thoucht--an’ was jist yirnin’ to gang till her an’ tell her, an’ stop the greitin’ o’ her hert, but I cudna muv han’ nor fit, naither cud I open my mou’ to cry till her. An’ I gaed dreamin’ on at the same thing ower an’ ower, a’ the time I was asleep. But there was naething sae frichtsome aboot that, my lord.” “No, indeed,” said his lordship. “Only it garred me greit tu, my lord, ’cause I cudna win at her to help her.” His lordship laughed, but oddly, and changed the subject. “There’s no word of that boat yet,” he said. “I must write again.” “May I show Malcolm the library, papa?” asked Lady Florimel. “I _wad_ fain see the buiks,” adjected Malcolm. “You don’t know what a scholar he is, papa!”