There sat an orphan maiden beneath the old oak-tree of
     appointment.  The withered leaves fell around her, and her
     heart was more withered than they.

The parent of the ice [poetically taken from the frost] still congealed the hail-drops in her hair; they were like the specks of white ashes on the twisted boughs of the blackened and half-consumed oak that blazes in the hall.

And the maiden said, “Give me comfort, Lady, I am an orphan child.”  And the Lady replied, “How can I give that which I have not?  I am the widow of a slain lord,—­the mother of a perished child.  When I fled in my fear from the vengeance of my husband’s foes, our bark was overwhelmed in the tide, and my infant perished.  This was on St. Bridget’s morn, near the strong Lyns of Campsie.  May ill luck light upon the day.”  And the maiden answered, “It was on St. Bridget’s morn, and twelve harvests before this time, that the fishermen of Campsie drew in their nets neither grilse nor salmon, but an infant half dead, who hath since lived in misery, and must die, unless she is now aided.”  And the Lady answered, “Blessed be Saint Bridget and her morn, for these are the dark eyes and the falcon look of my slain lord; and thine shall be the inheritance of his widow.”  And she called for her waiting attendants, and she bade them clothe that maiden in silk, and in samite; and the pearls which they wove among her black tresses, were whiter than the frozen hail-drops.

While the song proceeded, Lord Menteith observed, with some surprise, that it appeared to produce a much deeper effect upon the mind of Sir Duncan Campbell, than he could possibly have anticipated from his age and character.  He well knew that the Highlanders of that period possessed a much greater sensibility both for tale and song than was found among their Lowland neighbours; but even this, he thought, hardly accounted for the embarrassment with which the old man withdrew his eyes from the songstress, as if unwilling to suffer them to rest on an object so interesting.  Still less was it to be expected, that features which expressed pride, stern common sense, and the austere habit of authority, should have been so much agitated by so trivial a circumstance.  As the Chief’s brow became clouded, he drooped his large shaggy grey eyebrows until they almost concealed his eyes, on the lids of which something like a tear might be seen to glisten.  He remained silent and fixed in the same posture for a minute or two, after the last note had ceased to vibrate.  He then raised his head, and having looked at Annot Lyle, as if purposing to speak to her, he as suddenly changed that purpose, and was about to address Allan, when the door opened, and the Lord of the Castle made his appearance.

CHAPTER X.

     Dark on their journey lour’d the gloomy day,
     Wild were the hills, and doubtful grew the way;
     More dark, more gloomy, and more doubtful, show’d
     The mansion, which received them from the road. 
     —­The travellers, A romance.