“Mak ghem o’ a blast o’ win’ by comparin’ ’t to my gran’father!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Hoot, my leddy! it’s a coamplement to the biggest blast ’at ever blew to be compairt till an auld man like _him_. I’m ower used to them to min’ them muckle mysel’, ’cep’ to fecht wi’ them. But whan I watch the sea-goos dartin’ like arrow-heids throu’ the win’, I sometimes think it maun be gran’ for the angels to caw aboot great flags o’ wings in a mortal warstle wi’ sic a hurricane as this.” “I don’t understand you one bit,” said Lady Florimel petulantly. As she spoke, she went on, but, the blast having abated, Malcolm lingered, to place a proper distance between them. “You needn’t keep so far behind,” said Florimel, looking back. “As yer leddyship pleases,” answered Malcolm, and was at once by her side. “I’ll gang till ye tell me to stan’.--Eh, sae different ’s ye look frae the ither mornin’!” “What morning?” “Whan ye was sittin’ at the fut o’ the bored craig.” “_Bored craig_? What’s that?” “The rock wi’ a hole throu’ ’t. Ye ken the rock weel eneuch, my leddy. Ye was sittin’ at the fut o’ ’t, readin’ yer buik, as white ’s gien ye had been made o’ snaw. It cam to me that the rock was the sepulchre, the hole the open door o’ ’t, an’ yersel’ ane o’ the angels that had faulded his wings an’ was waitin’ for somebody to tell the guid news till, that he was up an awa’.” “And what do I look like to-day?” she asked. “Ow! the day, ye luik like some cratur o’ the storm; or the storm itsel’ takin’ a leevin’ shape, an’ the bonniest it could; or maybe, like Ahriel, gaein’ afore the win’, wi’ the blast in ’s feathers, rufflin’ them a’ gaits at ance.” “Who’s Ahriel?” “Ow, the fleein’ cratur i’ the Tempest! But in your bonny southern speech, I daursay ye wad ca’ him--or her, I dinna ken whilk the cratur was--ye wad ca’ ’t Ayriel?” “I don’t know anything about him or her or it,” said Lady Florimel. “Ye’ll hae a’ aboot him up i’ the libbrary there though,” said Malcolm. “The Tempest’s the only ane o’ Shakspere’s plays ’at I hae read, but it’s a gran’ ane, as Maister Graham has empooered me to see.” “Oh, dear!” exclaimed Florimel, “I’ve lost my book!” “I’ll gang back an’ luik for ’t this meenute, my leddy,” said Malcolm. “I ken ilka fit o’ the road we’ve come, an’ it’s no possible but I fa’ in wi’ ’t.--Ye’ll sune be hame noo, an’ it’ll hardly be on again afore ye win in,” he added, looking up at the clouds. “But how am I to get it? I want it very much.” “I’ll jist fess ’t up to the Hoose, an’ say ’at I fan’ ’t whaur I will fin’ ’t. But I wuss ye wad len’ me yer pocket-nepkin to row ’t in, for I’m feared for blaudin’ ’t afore I get it back to ye.” Florimel gave him her handkerchief, and Malcolm took his leave, saying.-- “I’ll be up i’ the coorse o’ a half-hoor at farthest.”