"It seems that there is a cripple fellow of the
neighborhood who had stumbled, unseen, upon your trysts. He told--spoke
it all out to the crowd gathered. There was a letter, too, upon her
which gave a clue. But she never named you and evidently meant not to
name you.... Poor child! She may have thought herself strong, and then
things have come over her wave on wave. Her grandfather--that dark
upbringing on tenets harsh and wrathful--certainty of disgrace.
Pitiful!"
There came a sound from the chair pushed back from the light. Mr.
Wotherspoon measured the table with his fingers.
"It seems that the countryside was searching for her. It was the laird
of Glenfernie who, alone and coming upon some trace, entered the
Kelpie's Pool and found her there. They say that he carried her, dead,
in his arms through the glen to White Farm."
Some proclamation or other was being made at the Cross of Edinburgh. A
trumpet blew and the street was filled with footsteps.
"The laird of Glenfernie," said the lawyer, "has joined, I hear, Sir
John Cope at Dunbar. It is not impossible that you may have speech
together from opposing battle-lines." He poured wine. "My bag of news
is empty, Captain Rullock."
Ian rose from his seat. His face was gray and twisted, his voice, when
he spoke, hollow, low, and dry. "I must go now to Lord George
Murray.
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