“Nae--jist closs, my lord. We’re sittin’ i’ the mou’ o’ ’t, like, wi’ the thrapple (_throat_) o’ ’t ahin’ ’s, an’ a muckle stamach ayont that.” “I hope there’s no danger,” said the marquis. “Nane ’at I ken o’.” “No water at the bottom?” “Nane, my lord--that is, naething but a bonny spring i’ the rock-side.” “Come away, papa!” cried Florimel. “I don’t like it. I’ve had enough of this kind of thing.” “Nonsense!” said the marquis, still rubbing his head. “Ye wad spile a’, my leddy! It’s ower late, forbye,” said Malcolm; “I hear a fut.” He rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly, saying in a whisper: “It’s Mistress Catanach wi’ a lantren! Haud yer tongue, my bonny leddy; ye ken weel she’s no mowse. Dinna try to leuk, my lord; she micht get a glimp o’ ye--she’s terrible gleg. I hae been hearin’ mair yet aboot her. Yer lordship’s ill to convence, but depen’ upo’ ’t, whaurever that woman is, there there’s mischeef! Whaur she taks a scunner at a body, she hates like the verra deevil. She winna aye lat them ken ’t, but taks time to du her ill turns. An’ it’s no that only, but gien she gets a haud o’ onything agane onybody, she’ll save ’t up upo’ the chance o’ their giein’ her some offence afore they dee. She never lowses haud o’ the tail o’ a thing, an’ at her ain proaper time, she’s in her natur’ bun’ to mak the warst use o’ ’t.” Malcolm was anxious both to keep them still, and to turn aside any further inquiry as to the face Florimel had seen. Again he peeped out. “What _is_ she efter noo? She’s comin’ this gait,” he went on, in a succession of whispers, turning his head back over his shoulder when he spoke. “Gien she thoucht there was a hole i’ the perris she didna ken a’ the oots an’ ins o’, it wad haud her ohn sleepit.-- Weesht! weesht! here she comes!” he concluded, after a listening pause, in the silence of which he could hear her step approaching. He stretched out his neck over the ledge, and saw her coming straight for the back of the cave, looking right before her with slow moving, keen, wicked eyes. It was impossible to say what made them look wicked: neither in form, colour, motion, nor light, were they ugly--yet in everyone of these they looked wicked, as her lantern, which, being of horn, she had opened for more light, now and then, as it swung in her hand, shone upon her pale, pulpy, evil countenance. “Gien she tries to come up, I’ll hae to caw her doon,” he said to himself, “an’ I dinna like it, for she’s a wuman efter a’, though a deevilich kin’ o’ a ane; but there’s my leddy! I hae broucht her intill ’t, an’ I maun see her safe oot o’ ’t!”