Malcolm led the way to the little chamber contrived under the temple in the heart of the hill, and unlocking the door made her enter. There he seated her in a comfortable chair, and wrapped her in the plaid he had brought for the purpose. It was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms for very pity, for, both body and soul, she seemed too frozen to shiver. He shut the door, sat down on the table near her, and said: “There’s naebody to disturb ’s here, Lizzy: what wad ye say to me noo?” The sun was nearly down, and its light already almost smothered in clouds, so that the little chamber, whose door and window were in the deep shadow of the hill, was nearly dark. “I wadna hae ye tell me onything ye promised no to tell,” resumed Malcolm, finding she did not reply, “but I wad like to hear as muckle as ye can say.” “I hae naething to tell ye, Ma’colm, but jist ’at my leddy Florimel’s gauin’ to be merried upo’ Lord Meikleham--Lord Liftore, they ca’ him noo. Hech me!” “God forbid she sud be merried upon ony sic a bla’guard!” cried Malcolm. “Dinna ca’ ’im ill names, Ma’colm. I canna bide it, though I hae no richt to tak up the stick for him.” “I wadna say a word ’at micht fa’ sair on a sair hert,” he returned; “but gien ye kent a’, ye wad ken I hed a gey-sized craw to pluck wi’ ’s lordship mysel’.” The girl gave a low cry. “Ye wadna hurt ’im, Ma’colm?” she said, in terror at the thought of the elegant youth in the clutches of an angry fisherman, even if he were the generous Malcolm MacPhail himself. “I wad raither not,” he replied, “but we maun see hoo he cairries himsel’.” “Du naething till ’im for my sake, Ma’colm. Ye can hae naething again’ him yersel’.” It was too dark for Malcolm to see the keen look of wistful regret with which Lizzy tried to pierce the gloom and read his face: for a moment the poor girl thought he meant he had loved her himself. But far other thoughts were in Malcolm’s mind: one was, that her whom, as a scarce approachable goddess, he had loved before he knew her of his own blood, he would rather see married to an honest fisherman in the Seaton of Portlossie, than to such a lord as Meikleham. He had seen enough of him at Lossie House to know what he was, and puritanical fish-catching Malcolm had ideas above those of most marquises of his day: the thought of the alliance was horrible to him. It was possibly not inevitable, however; only what could he do, and at the same time avoid grievous hurt? “I dinna think he’ll ever merry my leddy,” he said. “What gars ye say that, Ma’colm?” returned Lizzy, with eagerness.