“I’ my ain room at nicht, an’ doon at my gran’father’s as lang ’s fowk was aboot--wi’ a bit dauner (_stroll_) up the burn i’ the mirk.” “You couldn’t encounter the shame of being seen with such a face --eh?” “It micht ha’ been thoucht a disgrace to the tane or the tither o’ ’s, my lord--maybe to baith.” “If you don’t learn to curb that tongue of yours, it will bring you to worse.” “My lord, I confessed my faut, and I pat up wi’ the blow. But if it hadna been that I was i’ the wrang--weel, things micht hae differt.” “Hold your tongue, I tell you. You’re an honest, good fellow, and I’m sorry I struck you. There!” “I thank yer lordship.” “I sent for you because I’ve just heard from Aberdeen that the boat is on her way round. You must be ready to take charge of her the moment she arrives.” “I wull be that, my lord. It doesna shuit me at a’ to be sae lang upo’ the solid: I’m like a cowt upon a toll-ro’d.” The next morning he got a telescope, and taking with him his dinner of bread and cheese, and a book in his pocket, went up to the Temple of the Winds, to look out for the boat. Every few minutes he swept the offing, but morning and afternoon passed, and she did not appear. The day’s monotony was broken only by a call from Demon. Malcolm looked landwards, and spied his mistress below amongst the trees, but she never looked in his direction. He had just become aware of the first dusky breath of the twilight, when a tiny sloop appeared, rounding the Deid Heid, as they called the promontory which closed in the bay on the east. The sun was setting, red and large, on the other side of the Scaurnose, and filled her white sails with a rosy dye, as she came stealing round in a fair soft wind. The moon hung over her, thin, and pale, and ghostly, with hardly shine enough to show that it was indeed she, and not the forgotten scrap of a torn up cloud. As she passed the point and turned towards the harbour, the warm amethystine hue suddenly vanished from her sails, and she looked white and cold, as if the sight of the Death’s Head had scared the blood out of her. “It’s hersel’!” cried Malcolm in delight. “Aboot the size o’ a muckle herrin’ boat, but nae mair like ane than Lady Florimel ’s like Meg Partan! It’ll be jist gran’ to hae a cratur sae near leevin’ to guide an’ tak yer wull o’! I had nae idea she was gaein’ to be onything like sae bonny. I’ll no be fit to manage her in a squall though. I maun hae anither han’. An’ I winna hae a laddie aither. It maun be a grown man, or I winna tak in han’ to haud her abune the watter. I wull no. I s’ hae Blue Peter himsel’ gien I can get him. Eh! jist luik at her--wi’ her bit gaff-tappie set, an’ her jib an a’, booin’ an’ booin’, an’ comin’ on ye as gran’ ’s ony born leddy!” He shut up his telescope, ran down the hill, unlocked the private door at its foot, and in three or four minutes was waiting her on the harbour wall.