One night
there was graver silence than usual in the room; all were
despondent, and lay resigned to their seemingly impending fate. No
rescue came, nor any tidings of relief. In the darkness one
piercing scream was heard from the narrow window. A Highland nurse
had clambered up to gaze through the bars and strain her ears once
more. The cooling breeze of night blew in her face and wafted such
music as she could not stay to hear. One spring to the ground, a
clapping of hands above the head, and such a shriek as appalled
her sisters who clustered round; but all she could say between the
sobs was: "The slogan--the slogan!" But few knew what the slogan
was. "Didna ye hear--didna ye hear?" cried the demented girl, and
then listening one moment, that she might not be deceived, she
muttered, "It's the Macgregors gathering, the grandest o' them
a'," and fell senseless to the ground. Truly, my lassie, the
"grandest o' them a'," for never came such strains before to
mortal ears. And so Jessie of Lucknow takes her place in history
as one of the finest themes for painter, dramatist, poet or
historian henceforth and forever. I have been hesitating whether
the next paragraph in my note-book should go down here or be
omitted. Probably it would be in better taste if quietly ignored,
but then it would be so finely natural if put in.
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