"My lord," he began with hesitation, "you see--if a young gentleman is a thocht out of the way, and just maybe excited about something and no altogether his ain man--what's that to the like of me? Never a hair o' hairm would that do to Hamish. But when it's a leddy, and young and real tender-hearted! We maun aye think o' them, my lord, and spare them--the weemen. No, it's what we dinna do--they have the warst in a general way to bear. But atween you and me, my lord, that though you're far my shuperior, are just man and man----" "It is you that are my superior, Hamish," said Lord Erradeen; "but look at me now and say if you think I am mad. You have saved me. I am fit to speak to her now. Do you think I would harm her? Not for anything in the world." "No if you were--yoursel'--Lord Erradeen." "But I am--myself. And the moment has come when I must know. Take my hand, Hamish; look at me. Do you think I am not to be trusted with Oona?" "My lord, to make Hamish your judge, what's that but daft too? And what right have ye to call my young leddy by her name? You're no a drap's blood to them, nor even a great friend." Oona's faithful guardian stood lowering his brows upon the young lord with a mingled sense of the superiority of his office, and of disapproval, almost contemptuous, of the madman who had given it to him. That he should make Hamish the judge was mad indeed. And yet Hamish was the judge, standing on his right to defend his mistress. They stood looking at each other, the boatman holding his shaggy head high, reading the other's face with the keenest scrutiny. But just then there came a soft sound into the air, a call from the bank, clear, with that tone, not loud but penetrating, which mountaineers use everywhere. "Are you there, Hamish?" Oona cried. CHAPTER VIII.