As they spoke they reached the cliff that hung over the shattered shore. It was a clear, cold night. Snow, the remnants of the last storm, which frost had preserved in every shadowy spot, lay all about them. The sky was clear, and full of stars, for the wind that blew cold from the north-west had dispelled the snowy clouds. The waves rushed into countless gulfs and crannies and straits on the ruggedest of shores, and the sounds of waves and wind kept calling like voices from the unseen. By a path, seemingly fitter for goats than men, they descended half-way to the beach, and under a great projection of rock stood sheltered from the wind. Then Malcolm turned to Joseph Mair, commonly called Blue Peter, because he had been a man-of-war’s man, and laying his hand on his arm said: “Blue Peter, did ever I tell ye a lee?” “No, never,” answered Peter. “What gars ye speir sic a thing?” “Cause I want ye to believe me noo, an’ it winna be easy.” “I’ll believe onything ye tell me--’at _can_ be believed.” “Weel, I ha’e come to the knowledge ’at my name’s no MacPhail: it’s Colonsay. Man, I’m the Markis o’ Lossie.” Without a moment’s hesitation, without a single stare of unbelief or even astonishment, Blue Peter pulled off his bonnet, and stood bareheaded before the companion of his toils. “Peter!” cried Malcolm, “dinna brak my hert: put on yer bonnet.” “The Lord o’ lords be thankit, my lord!” said Blue Peter: “the puir man has a freen’ this day.” Then replacing his bonnet he said-- “An’ what’ll be yer lordship’s wull?” “First and foremost, Peter, that my best freen’, efter my auld daddy and the schulemaister, ’s no to turn again’ me ’cause I hed a markis an’ neither piper nor fisher to my father.” “It’s no like it, my lord,” returned Blue Peter, “whan the first thing I say is--what wad ye ha’e o’ me? Here I am--no speirin’ a queston!” “Weel, I wad ha’e ye hear the story o’ ’t a’.” “Say on, my lord,” said Peter. But Malcolm was silent for a few moments. “I was thinkin’, Peter,” he said at last, “whether I cud bide to hear you say _my lord_ to me. Dootless, as it’ll ha’e to come to that, it wad be better to grow used till ’t while we’re thegither, sae ’at whan it maun be, it mayna ha’e the luik o’ cheenge intil it, for cheenge is jist the thing I canna bide. I’ the meantime, hooever, we canna gi’e in till ’t, ’cause it wad set fowk jaloosin’. But I wad be obleeged till ye, Peter, gien you wad say _my lord_ whiles, whan we’re oor lanes, for I wad fain grow sae used till ’t ’at I never kent ye said it, for ’atween you an’ me, I dinna like it. An’ noo I s’ tell ye a’ ’at I ken.” When he had ended the tale of what had come to his knowledge, and how it had come, and paused: “Gie ’s a grup o’ yer han’, my lord,” said Blue Peter, “an’ may God haud ye lang in life an’ honour to reule ower us. Noo, gien ye please, what are ye gauin’ to du?” “Tell ye me, Peter, what ye think I oucht to du.”