Next morning, after the luxurious rest of a heather-bed, I found myself not much the worse for my adventure, but heart-sore for the loss of my horse. CHAPTER XX _Margaret_. Early in the forenoon, I came in sight of the cottage of Margaret. It lay unchanged, a grey, stone-fashioned hut, in the hollow of the mountain-basin. I scrambled down the soft green brae, and soon stood within the door of the cottage. There I was met and welcomed by Margaret’s attendant. She led me to the bed where my old nurse lay. Her eyes were yet undimmed by years, and little change had passed upon her countenance since I parted with her on that memorable night. The moment she saw me, she broke out into a passionate lamentation such as a mother might utter over the maimed strength and disfigured beauty of her child. “What ill has he done--my bairn--to be all night the sport of the powers of the air and the wicked of the earth? But the day will dawn for my Duncan yet, and a lovely day it will be!” Then looking at me anxiously, she said, “You’re not much the worse for last night, my bairn. But woe’s me! His grand horse, that carried him so, that I blessed the beast in my prayers!” I knew that no one could have yet brought her the news of my accident. “You saw me fall, then, nurse?” I said. “That I did,” she answered. “I see you oftener than you think. But there was a time when I could hardly see you at all, and I thought you were dead, my Duncan.” I stooped to kiss her. She laid the one hand that had still the power of motion upon my head, and dividing the hair, which had begun to be mixed with grey, said: “Eh! The bonny grey hairs! My Duncan’s a man in spite of them!” She searched until she found the scar of the sabre-cut. “Just where I thought to find it!” she said. “That was a terrible day; worse for me than for you, Duncan.” “You saw me _then!_” I exclaimed. “Little do folks know,” she answered, “who think I’m lying here like a live corpse in its coffin, what liberty my soul--and that’s just me--enjoys. Little do they know what I see and hear. And there’s no witchcraft or evil-doing in it, my boy; but just what the Almighty made me. Janet, here, declares she heard the cry that I made, when this same cut, that’s no so well healed yet, broke out in your bonny head. I saw no sword, only the bursting of the blood from the wound. But sit down, my bairn, and have something to eat after your walk. We’ll have time enough for speech.” Janet had laid out the table with fare of the old homely sort, and I was a boy once more as I ate the well-known food. Every now and then I glanced towards the old face. Soon I saw that she was asleep. From her lips broke murmured sounds, so partially connected that I found it impossible to remember them; but the impression they left on my mind was something like this,