The mist had floated away, and the moor was drenched with golden sunshine when we went back to the castle. As we entered the hall I heard the sound of a dog howling, and spoke of it to one of the men-servants who had opened the door.
"That sounds like Gelert. Is he shut up somewhere?"
Gelert was a beautiful sheep-dog who belonged to Feargus and was his heart's friend.
I allowed him to be kept in the courtyard.
The man hesitated before he answered me, with a curiously grave face.
"It is Gelert, miss. He is howling for his master. We were obliged to shut him in the stables."
"But Feargus ought to have reached here by this time," I was beginning.
I was stopped because I found Angus Macayre almost at my elbow. He had that moment come out of the library. He put his hand on my arm.
`Will ye come with me?" he said, and led me back to the room he had just left. He kept his hand on my arm when we all stood together inside, Hector and I looking at him in wondering question. He was going to tell me something-- we both saw that.
"It is a sad thing you have to hear," he said.
"He was a fine man, Feargus, and a most faithful servant. He went to see his mother last night and came back late across the moor.
There was a heavy mist, and he must have lost his way. A shepherd found his body in a tarn at daybreak. They took him back to his father's home."
I looked at Hector MacNairn and again at Angus. "But it couldn't be Feargus," I cried.
"I saw him an hour ago. He passed us playing on his pipes. He was playing a new tune I had never heard before a wonderful, joyous thing. I both heard and SAW him!"
Angus stood still and watched me. They both stood still and watched me, and even in my excitement I saw that each of them looked a little pale.
"You said you did not hear him at first, but you surely saw him when he passed so near,"
I protested. "I called to him, and he took off his bonnet, though he did not stop. He was going so quickly that perhaps he did not hear me call his name."
What strange thing in Hector's look checked me? Who knows?
"You DID see him, didn't you?" I asked of him.
Then he and Angus exchanged glances, as if asking each other to decide some grave thing.
It was Hector MacNairn who decided it.
"No," he answered, very quietly, "I neither saw nor heard him, even when he passed.
But you did."
"I did, quite plainly," I went on, more and more bewildered by the way in which they kept a sort of tender, awed gaze fixed on me. "You remember I even noticed that he looked pale. I laughed, you know, when I said he looked almost like one of the White People--"
Just then my breath caught itself and I stopped. I began to remember things--hundreds of things.
Angus spoke to me again as quietly as Hector had spoken.
"Neither Jean nor I ever saw Wee Brown Elspeth," he said--"neither Jean nor I. But you did. You have always seen what the rest of us did not see, my bairn--always."
I stammered out a few words, half in a whisper. "I have always seen what you others could not see? WHAT--HAVE--I--SEEN?"
But I was not frightened. I suppose I could never tell any one what strange, wide, bright places seemed suddenly to open and shine before me. Not places to shrink back from--oh no! no! One could be sure, then--SURE! Feargus had lifted his bonnet with that extraordinary triumph in his look--even Feargus, who had been rather dour.
"You called them the White People," Hector MacNairn said.
Angus and Jean had known all my life.
A very old shepherd who had looked in my face when I was a baby had said I had the eyes which "SAW." It was only the saying of an old Highlander, and might not have been remembered.
Later the two began to believe I had a sight they had not. The night before Wee Brown Elspeth had been brought to me Angus had read for the first time the story of Dark Malcolm, and as they sat near me on the moor they had been talking about it. That was why he forgot himself when I came to ask them where the child had gone, and told him of the big, dark man with the scar on his forehead. After that they were sure.
They had always hidden their knowledge from me because they were afraid it might frighten me to be told. I had not been a strong child.
They kept the secret from my relatives because they knew they would dislike to hear it and would not believe, and also would dislike me as a queer, abnormal creature. Angus had fears of what they might do with doctors and severe efforts to obliterate from my mind my "nonsense," as they would have been sure to call it.
The two wise souls had shielded me on every side.
"It was better that you should go on thinking it only a simple, natural thing," Angus said.
"And as to natural, what IS natural and what is not? Man has not learned all the laws of nature yet. Nature's a grand, rich, endless thing, always unrolling her scroll with writings that seem new on it. They're not new. They were always written there. But they were not unrolled. Never a law broken, never a new law, only laws read with stronger eyes."
Angus and I had always been very fond of the Bible--the strange old temple of wonders, full of all the poems and tragedies and histories of man, his hates and battles and loves and follies, and of the Wisdom of the universe and the promises of the splendors of it, and which even those of us who think ourselves the most believing neither wholly believe nor will understand.
We had pored over and talked of it. We had never thought of it as only a pious thing to do.
The book was to us one of the mystic, awe- inspiring, prophetic marvels of the world.
That was what made me say, half whispering:
"I have wondered and wondered what it meant --that verse in Isaiah: `Behold the former things are come to pass and new things do I declare; before they spring forth I tell you of them.'
Perhaps it means only the unrolling of the scroll."
"Aye, aye!" said Angus; "it is full of such deep sayings, and none of us will listen to them."
