“I will take the freedom of a word yet,” said I, beginning to tremble.  “Perhaps neither your father nor I are in the best of good spirits at Prestongrange’s.  I daresay we both have anxious business there, for it’s a dangerous house.  I was sorry for him too, and spoke to him the first, if I could but have spoken the wiser.  And for one thing, in my opinion, you will soon find that his affairs are mending.”

“It will not be through your friendship, I am thinking,” said she; “and he is much made up to you for your sorrow.”

“Miss Drummond,” cried I, “I am alone in this world....”

“And I am not wondering at that,” said she.

“O, let me speak!” said I.  “I will speak but the once, and then leave you, if you will, for ever.  I came this day in the hopes of a kind word that I am sore in want of.  I know that what I said must hurt you, and I knew it then.  It would have been easy to have spoken smooth, easy to lie to you; can you not think how I was tempted to the same?  Cannot you see the truth of my heart shine out?”

“I think here is a great deal of work, Mr. Balfour,” said she.  “I think we will have met but the once, and will can part like gentle-folk.”

“O, let me have one to believe in me!” I pleaded, “I cannae bear it else.  The whole world is clanned against me.  How am I to go through with my dreadful fate?  If there’s to be none to believe in me I cannot do it.  The man must just die, for I cannot do it.”

She had still looked straight in front of her, head in air; but at my words or the tone of my voice she came to a stop.  “What is this you say?” she asked.  “What are you talking of?”

“It is my testimony which may save an innocent life,” said I, “and they will not suffer me to bear it.  What would you do yourself?  You know what this is, whose father lies in danger.  Would you desert the poor soul?  They have tried all ways with me.  They have sought to bribe me; they offered me hills and valleys.  And to-day that sleuth-hound told me how I stood, and to what a length he would go to butcher and disgrace me.  I am to be brought in a party to the murder; I am to have held Glenure in talk for money and old clothes; I am to be killed and shamed.  If this is the way I am to fall, and me scarce a man—­if this is the story to be told of me in all Scotland—­if you are to believe it too, and my name is to be nothing but a by-word—­Catriona, how can I go through with it?  The thing’s not possible; it’s more than a man has in his heart.”

I poured my words out in a whirl, one upon the other; and when I stopped I found her gazing on me with a startled face.

“Glenure!  It is the Appin murder,” she said softly, but with a very deep surprise.

I had turned back to bear her company, and we were now come near the head of the brae above Dean village.  At this word I stepped in front of her like one suddenly distracted.

“For God’s sake!” I cried, “for God’s sake, what is this that I have done?” and carried my fists to my temples.  “What made me do it?  Sure, I am bewitched to say these things!”