Jean and Angus were quite happy in their quiet way when I told them who I was expecting.  They knew how glad I was myself.  Jean was full of silent pleasure as she arranged the rooms I had chosen for my guests, rooms which had the most sweeping view of the moor.  Angus knew that Mr. MacNairn would love the library, and he hovered about consulting his catalogues and looking over his shelves, taking down volumes here and there, holding them tenderly in his long, bony old hand as he dipped into them.  He made notes of the manuscripts and books he thought Mr. MacNairn would feel the deepest interest in.  He loved his library with all his being, and I knew he looked forward to talking to a man who would care for it in the same way.

He had been going over one of the highest shelves one day and had left his step-ladder leaning against it when he went elsewhere.  It was when I mounted the steps, as I often did when he left them, that I came upon the manuscript which related the old story of Dark Malcolm and his child.  It had been pushed behind some volumes, and I took it out because it looked so old and yellow.  And I opened at once at the page where the tale began.

At first I stood reading, and then I sat down on the broad top of the ladder and forgot everything.  It was a savage history of ferocious hate and barbarous reprisals.  It had been a feud waged between two clans for three generations.  The story of Dark Malcolm and Ian Red Hand was only part of it, but it was a gruesome thing.  Pages told of the bloody deeds they wrought on each other’s houses.  The one human passion of Dark Malcolm’s life was his love for his little daughter.  She had brown eyes and brown hair, and those who most loved her called her Wee Brown Elspeth.  Ian Red Hand was richer and more powerful than Malcolm of the Glen, and therefore could more easily work his cruel will.  He knew well of Malcolm’s worship of his child, and laid his plans to torture him through her.  Dark Malcolm, coming back to his rude, small castle one night after a raid in which he had lost followers and weapons and strength, found that Wee Brown Elspeth had been carried away, and unspeakable taunts and threats left behind by Ian and his men.  With unbound wounds, broken dirks and hacked swords, Dark Malcolm and the remnant of his troop of fighting clansmen rushed forth into the night.

“Neither men nor weapons have we to win her back,” screamed Dark Malcolm, raving mad, “but we may die fighting to get near enough to her to drive dirk into her little breast and save her from worse.”

They were a band of madmen in their black despair.  How they tore through the black night; what unguarded weak spot they found in Ian’s castle walls; how they fought their way through it, leaving their dead bodies in the path, none really ever knew.  By what strange chance Dark Malcolm came upon Wee Brown Elspeth, craftily set to playing hide-and-seek with a child of Ian’s so that she might not cry out and betray her presence; how, already wounded to his death, he caught at and drove his dirk into her child heart, the story only offers guesses at.  But kill and save her he did, falling dead with her body held against his breast, her brown hair streaming over it.  Not one living man went back to the small, rude castle on the Glen—­not one.