The
air had a tang of cooled wine, the sky was blue.
Ian and Alexander, coming over the hill, reached the kirk in time to
see emerge the married pair with their kin and friends. The two stood
with a rabble of children and boys beneath the yew-trees by the gate.
The yellow-haired bride in her finery, the yellow-haired groom in his,
the dressed and festive following, stepped from the kirkyard to some
waiting carts and horses. The most mounted and took place, the
procession put itself into motion with clatter and laughter. The
children and boys ran after to where the road dipped over the hill. A
cluster of village folk turned the long, descending street. In passing
they spoke to Alexander and Ian.
"Who was married?--Jock Wilson and Janet Macraw, o' Langmuir."
The two lounged against the kirkyard wall, beneath the yews.
"_Marry!_ That's a strange, terrible, useless word to me!"
"I don't know...."
"Yes, it is!... Ian, do you ever think that you've lived before?"
"I don't know. I'm living now!"
"Well, I think that we all lived before. I think that the same things
happen again--"
"Well, let them--some of them!" said Ian. "Come along, if we're going
through the glen."
They left the kirkyard for the village street. Here they sauntered,
friends with the whole. They looked in at the tavern upon the drovers,
they watched the blacksmith and his helper.
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