Salome was left at the castle, with the numerous servants of the establishment, but otherwise quite alone.  She had neither governess, companion, nor confidential maid.  She suffered from this enforced solitude.  She had seen all the splendors of the interior of Lone, and there was nothing new to discover—­except—­yes, there was Malcom’s Tower, which tradition said was the most ancient portion of the castle, whose foundations had been dug from the solid rock, hundreds of feet below the surface of the lake.

The tower had been restored with the rest of the castle, but had never been fitted up for occupation.

Salome determined to spend one morning in exploring the old tower from foundation to top.

She summoned the housekeeper to her presence, and made known her purpose.

“Macolm’s Watch Tower, Miss!  Weel, then, it’s naething to see within, forbye a few auld family portraits and sic like, left there by the auld duke; but there’ll be an unco’ foine view frae the top on a braw day like this,” said Dame Ross, as she detached a bunch of keys from her belt, and signified her readiness to attend her young mistress.

I need not detail the explorations of the young lady from the horrible dungeon of the foundation—­up the narrow, winding steps, cut in the thickness of the outer wall, which was perforated on the inner side by doorways on each landing, leading into the strong, round stone rooms or cells on each floor, lighted only by long narrow slits in the solid masonry.  All the lower cells were empty.

But when they reached the top of the winding steps and opened the door of the upper cell, the housekeeper said: 

“Here are deposited some o’ the relics left by the auld duke until such time as he shall be ready to tak’ them awa’.”

Salome followed her into the room and suddenly drew back in surprise.

She saw standing out from the gloom, the form of a young man of majestic beauty and grace.

A second look showed her that this was only a full-length life-sized portrait—­but of whom?

Her gaze became riveted on the glorious presence.

The portrait represented a young man of about twenty-five years of age, tall, finely formed, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a well-turned, stately head, a Grecian profile, a fair, open brow, dark, deep blue eyes, and very rich auburn hair and beard.  He wore the picturesque highland dress—­the tartan of the Clan Scott.

But it was not the dress, the form, the face that fascinated the gaze of the girl.  It was the air, the look, the soul that shone through it all!

A sun ray, glancing through the narrow slit in the solid wall, fell directly upon the fine face, lighting it up as with a halo of glory!

“It is the face of the young St. John!  Nay, it is more divine!  It is the face of Gabriel who standeth in the presence of the Lord!  But it expresses more of power!  It is the face of Michael rather, when he put the hosts of hell to flight!  Oh! a wondrously glorious face!” said the rapt young enthusiast to herself, as she gazed in awe-struck silence on the portrait.