A torrent of Gaelic broke from Duncan, into the midst of which rushed another from Mrs. Catanach, similar, but coarse in vowel and harsh in consonant sounds.  The marquis stepped into the room.  “What is the meaning of all this?” he said with dignity.

The tumult of Celtic altercation ceased.  The old piper drew himself up to his full height and stood silent.  Mrs. Catanach, red as fire with exertion and wrath, turned ashy pale.  The marquis cast on her a searching and significant look.

“See here, my lord,” said Malcolm.

Candle in hand, his lordship approached the bed.  At the same moment Mrs. Catanach glided out with her usual downy step, gave a wink as of mutual intelligence to the group at the door, and vanished.

On Malcolm’s arm lay the head of a young girl.  Her thin, worn countenance was stained with tears and livid with suffocation.  She was recovering, but her eyes rolled stupid and visionless.

“It’s Phemy, my lord—­Blue Peter’s lassie, ’at was tint,” said Malcolm.

“It begins to look serious,” said the marquis.—­“Mrs. Catanach!  Mrs. Courthope!”

He turned toward the door.  Mrs. Courthope entered, and a head or two peeped in after her.  Duncan stood as before, drawn up and stately, his visage working, but his body motionless as the statue of a sentinel.

“Where is the Catanach woman gone?” cried the marquis.

“Cone!” shouted the piper.  “Cone! and her huspant will be waiting to pe killing her!  Och nan ochan!”

“Her husband!” echoed the marquis.

“Ach! she’ll not can pe helping it, my lort—­no more till one will pe tead; and tat should pe ta woman, for she’ll pe a paad woman—­ta worstest woman efer was married, my lort.”

“That’s saying a good deal,” returned the marquis.

“Not one wort more as enough, my lort,” said Duncan.  “She was only pe her next wife, put, ochone! ochone! why did she’ll pe marry her?  You would haf stapt her long aco, my lort, if she’ll was your wife and you was knowing ta tamned fox and padger she was pe.  Ochone! and she tidn’t pe have her turk at her hench nor her sgian in her hose.”

He shook his hands like a despairing child, then stamped and wept in the agony of frustrated rage.

Mrs. Courthope took Phemy in her arms and carried her to her own room, where she opened the window and let the snowy wind blow full upon her.  As soon as she came quite to herself, Malcolm set out to bear the good tidings to her father and mother.

Only a few nights before had Phemy been taken to the room where they found her.  She had been carried from place to place, and had been some time, she believed, in Mrs. Catanach’s own house.  They had always kept her in the dark, and removed her at night blindfolded.  When asked if she had never cried out before, she said she had been too frightened; and when questioned as to what had made her do so then, she knew nothing of it:  she remembered only that a horrible creature appeared by the bedside, after which all was blank.  On the floor they found a hideous death-mask, doubtless the cause of the screams which Mrs. Catanach had sought to stifle with the pillows and bed-clothes.