There was silence then. A plover wheeled by, plaining aimlessly. Maisie the milk-lass ran forward, laughing. “Ah, ’tis my wee Seorsa,” she cried. “Seorsa! Seorsa! Seorsa!” Gorromalt took a stride forward, his face shadowy with anger, his eyes ablaze. “Get back to the kye, you wanton wench!” he shouted savagely. “Get back, or it is having my gun I’ll be and shooting that pee-wit of yours, that lennavan-Seorsa!” Then, shaking still, he turned to Morag. “Out with it, girl! What do you know?” “I know nothing.” “It is a lie, and it is knowing it I am!” “It is no lie. I _know_ nothing. I _fear_ much.” “And what do _you_ know, old man?” And, with that, Archibald Campbell turned like a baited bull upon Mr Stewart. “She was misled, Gorromalt, she was misled, poor lass! The trouble began last May, when she went away to the south, to that evil place. And then he came after her. And it was here he came … and … and…” “And who will that man be?” “Morag has said it: Jasper Morgan.” “And who will Jasper Morgan be?” “Are you not for knowing _that_, Archibald Campbell, and you _Gorromalt_?” “Why, what meaning are you at?” cried the man, bewildered. “Who will Jasper Morgan be but the son of Stanley Morgan!” “Stanley Morgan!… Stanley Morgan! I am no wiser. Do you wish to send me mad, man! Speak out!… out with it!” “Why, Gorromalt, what is Drumdoon’s name?” “Drumdoon… Why, Sir Ewan… Ah no, for sure ’tis now that English bread-taker, that southern land-snatcher, who calls himself Lord Greycourt. And what then?… will it be for…” “Aren’t you for knowing his name?… No?… Campbell, man, it is _Morgan_ … _Morgan_.” All this time Aunt Elspeth had sat silent. She now gave a low cry. Her husband turned and looked at her. “Go into the house,” he said harshly; “this will not be the time for whimpering; no, by God! it is not the time for whimpering, woman.” She rose, and walked feebly over to Mr Stewart. “Tell me all,” she said. Ah, grief to see the pain in her old, old eyes--and no tears there at all, at all. “When this man Jasper Morgan, that is son to Lord Greycourt, came here, it was to track a stricken doe. And now all is over. There is this note only. It is for Morag.” Gorromalt leaned forward to take it. But I had seen the wild look in Morag’s eyes, and I snatched it from Mr Stewart, and gave it to my dear, who slipped it beneath her kerchief. Sullenly her father drew up, scowled, but said nothing. “What else?” he asked, turning to the minister. “She is dying.” “Dying!” “Ay, alas, alas--the mist is on the hill--the mist is on the hill--and she so young, too, and so fair, ay, and so sweet and----”