“You forget,” she said, “your own worth and nobleness when you insult so very helpless a being, and one whom fate has thrown so totally into your power.  You know who and what I am, and how impossible it is that Menteith or you can use language of affection to me, beyond that of friendship.  You know from what unhappy race I have too probably derived my existence.”

“I will not believe it,” said Allan, impetuously; “never flowed crystal drop from a polluted spring.”

“Yet the very doubt,” pleaded Annot, “should make you forbear to use this language to me.”

“I know,” said M’Aulay, “it places a bar between us—­but I know also that it divides you not so inseparably from Menteith.—­Hear me, my beloved Annot!—­leave this scene of terrors and danger—­go with me to Kintail—­I will place you in the house of the noble Lady of Seaforth—­or you shall be removed in safety to Icolmkill, where some women yet devote themselves to the worship of God, after the custom of our ancestors.”

“You consider not what you ask of me,” replied Annot; “to undertake such a journey under your sole guardianship, were to show me less scrupulous than maiden ought.  I will remain here, Allan—­here under the protection of the noble Montrose; and when his motions next approach the Lowlands, I will contrive some proper means to relieve you of one, who has, she knows not how, become an object of dislike to you.”

Allan stood as if uncertain whether to give way to sympathy with her distress, or to anger at her resistance.

“Annot,” he said, “you know too well how little your words apply to my feelings towards you—­but you avail yourself of your power, and you rejoice in my departure, as removing a spy upon your intercourse with Menteith.  But beware both of you,” he added, in a stern tone; “for when was it ever heard that an injury was offered to Allan M’Aulay, for which he exacted not tenfold vengeance?”

So saying, he pressed her arm forcibly, pulled the bonnet over his brows, and strode out of the apartment.

CHAPTER XXI.

     —­After you’re gone,
     I grew acquainted with my heart, and search’d,
     What stirr’d it so.—­Alas!  I found it love. 
     Yet far from lust, for could I but have lived
     In presence of you, I had had my end.—­PHILASTER.

Annot Lyle had now to contemplate the terrible gulf which Allan M’Aulay’s declaration of love and jealousy had made to open around her.  It seemed as if she was tottering on the very brink of destruction, and was at once deprived of every refuge, and of all human assistance.  She had long been conscious that she loved Menteith dearer than a brother; indeed, how could it be otherwise, considering their early intimacy, the personal merit of the young nobleman, his assiduous attentions,—­and his infinite superiority in gentleness of disposition, and grace of manners, over the race of rude warriors with whom she lived?  But her affection was of that quiet, timid, meditative character, which sought rather a reflected share in the happiness of the beloved object, than formed more presumptuous or daring hopes.  A little Gaelic song, in which she expressed her feelings, has been translated by the ingenious and unhappy Andrew M’Donald; and we willingly transcribe the lines:—­