“Sure, man, if a kite can see the shadow of a mouse a mile away, it can see a black cloud on a hill near by!” “It’s a black cloud I bring, Archibald Campbell: alas, even so. Ay, sure, it is a black cloud it is. God melt the pain of it!” “Speak, man!” “There is no good in wading in heather. Gorromalt, and you, Mrs Campbell, and you, my poor Morag, and you too, my dear, must just be brave. It is God’s will.” “Speak, man, and don’t be winding the shroud all the time! Let us be hearing and seeing the thing you have brought to tell us.” It was at this moment that Aunt Elspeth half rose, and abruptly reseated herself, raising the while a deprecatory feeble hand. “Is it about Muireall?” she asked quaveringly. “She went away, to the church at Kilbrennan, at sunrise: and the water’s in spate all down Strathgorm. Has she been drowned? Is it death upon Muireall? Is it Muireall? Is it Muireall?” “She is not drowned, Mrs Campbell.” At that she sat back, the staring dread subsiding from her eyes. But at the minister’s words, Gorromalt slowly moved his face and body so that he fronted the speaker. Looking at Morag, I saw her face white as the canna. Her eyes swam in wet shadow. “It is not death, Mrs Campbell,” the old man repeated, with a strange, uneasy, furtive look, as he put his right hand to his stiff white necktie and flutteringly fingered it. “In the name o’ God, man, speak out!” “Ay, ay, Campbell: ay, ay, I am speaking … I am for the telling … but … but, see you, Gorromalt, be pitiful … be …” Gorromalt rose. I never realised before how tall he was. There was height to him, like unto that of a son of Anak. “Well, well, well, it is just for telling you I’ll be. Sit down, Gorromalt, sit down, Mr Campbell, sit down, man, sit down!… Ah, sure now, that is better. Well, well, God save us all from the sin that is in us: but … ah, mothering heart, it is saving you I would be if I could, but … but …” “But _what_!” thundered Gorromalt, with a voice that brought Maisie and Kirsteen out of the byre, where they were milking the kye. “He has the mercy: He only! And it is this, poor people: it is this. Muireall has come to sorrow.” “What sorrow is the sorrow that is on her?” “The sorrow of woman.” A terrible oath leapt from Gorromalt’s lips. His wife sat in a stony silence, her staring eyes filming like those of a stricken bird. Morag put her left hand to her heart. Suddenly Archibald Campbell turned to his daughter. “Morag, what is the name of that man whom Muireall came to know, when she and you went to that Sodom, that Gomorrha, which men call London?” “His name was Jasper Morgan.” “Has she ever seen him since?” “I think so.” “You _think_? What will you be _thinking_ for, girl! _Think!_ There will be time enough to think while the lichen grows grey on a new-fall’n rock! Out with it! Out with it! Have they met?… Has he been here?… is _he_ the man?”