The sun had dipped; the land lay
dusk, but the sky was a rose. There was a skimming of swallows
overhead, a singing of the wind in the ling. He walked with White Farm
to the foot of the moor, then said good night and turned toward his
own house.
CHAPTER XII
Two days later Alexander rode to Black Hill. There had been in the
night a storm with thunder and lightning, wind and rain. Huge, ragged
banks of clouds yet hung sullen in the air, though with lakes of blue
between and shafts of sun. The road was wet and shone. Now Black Alan
must pick his way, and now there held long stretches of easy going.
The old laird's quarrel with Mr. Archibald Touris was not the young
laird's. The old laird's liking for Mrs. Alison was strongly the young
laird's. Glenfernie, in the months since his father's death, had
ridden often enough to Black Hill. Now as he journeyed, together with
the summer and melody of his thoughts Elspeth-toward, he was holding
with himself a cogitation upon the subject of Ian and Ian's last
letter. He rode easily a powerful steed, needing to be strong for so
strongly built a horseman. His riding-dress was blue; he wore his own
hair, unpowdered and gathered in a ribbon beneath a three-cornered
hat. There was perplexity and trouble, too, in the Ian complex, but
for all that he rode with the color and sparkle of happiness in his
face.
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