“No fear!” interrupted Duncan eagerly,--“no fear, when ta wrong wass as larch as Morven!” In the sermon there had not been one word as to St Paul’s design in quoting the text. It had been but a theatrical setting forth of the vengeance of God upon sin, illustrated with several common tales of the discovery of murder by strange means--a sermon after Duncan’s own heart; and nothing but the way in which he now snuffed the wind with head thrown back and nostrils dilated, could have given an adequate idea of how much he enjoyed the recollection of it. Mr Graham had for many years believed that he must have some personal wrongs to brood over,--wrongs, probably, to which were to be attributed his loneliness and exile; but of such Duncan had never spoken, uttering no maledictions except against the real or imagined foes of his family.[4] [4] What added to the likelihood of Mr Graham’s conjecture was the fact, well enough known to him, though to few lowlanders besides, that revenge is not a characteristic of the Gael. Whatever instances of it may have appeared, and however strikingly they may have been worked up in fiction, such belong to the individual and not to the race. A remarkable proof of this occurs in the history of the family of Glenco itself. What remained of it after the massacre in 1689, rose in 1745, and joined the forces of Prince Charles Edward. Arriving in the neighbourhood of the residence of Lord Stair, whose grandfather had been one of the chief instigators of the massacre, the prince took special precautions lest the people of Glenco should wreak inherited vengeance on the earl. But they were so indignant at being supposed capable of visiting on the innocent the guilt of their ancestors, that it was with much difficulty they were prevented from forsaking the standard of the prince, and returning at once to their homes. Perhaps a yet stronger proof is the fact, fully asserted by one Gaelic scholar at least, that their literature contains nothing to foster feelings of revenge. The master placed so little value on any possible results of mere argument, and had indeed so little faith in any words except such as came hot from the heart, that he said no more, but, with an invitation to Malcolm to visit him in the evening, wished them good day, and turned in at his own door. The two went slowly on towards the sea-town. The road was speckled with home-goers, single and in groups, holding a quiet Sunday pace to their dinners. Suddenly Duncan grasped Malcolm’s arm with the energy of perturbation, almost of fright, and said in a loud whisper: “Tere’ll be something efil not far from her, Malcolm, my son! Look apout, look apout, and take care how you’ll pe leading her.” Malcolm looked about, and replied, pressing Duncan’s arm, and speaking in a low voice, far less audible than his whisper, “There’s naebody near, daddy--naebody but the howdie-wife.” “What howdie-wife do you mean, Malcolm?”