“Curse him,” he muttered, “I’ll e’en kill him the night as he passes in his deil machine.”

Then Hannah knew that Oyster McShamus had seen her with Ian beside the burn.  She turned and fled from the house.  Straight up the road she ran across towards the manor-house of Aucherlocherty to warn Ian.  To save him from her father’s wrath, that was her one thought.  Night gathered about the Highland girl as she ran.  The rain clouds and the gathering storm hung low with fitful lightning overhead.  She still ran on.  About her was the rolling of the thunder and the angry roaring of the swollen burn.  Then the storm broke upon the darkness with all the fury of the Highland gale.  They sky was rent with the fierce play of the elements.  Yet on Hannah ran.  Again and again the lightning hit her, but she ran on still.  She fell over the stones, tripped and stumbled in the ruts, butted into the hedges, cannoned off against the stone walls.  But she never stopped.  She went quicker and quicker.  The storm was awful.  Lightning, fire, flame, and thunder were all about her.  Trees were falling, hurdles were flying, birds were being struck by lightning.  Dogs, sheep and even cattle were hurled through the air.

She reached the manor-house, and stood a moment at the door.  The storm had lulled, the rain ceased, and for a brief moment there was quiet.  The light was streaming from the windows of the house.  Hannah paused.  Suddenly her heart misgave her.  Her quick ear had caught the sound of a woman’s voice within.  She approached the window and looked in.  Then, as if rooted to the spot, the Highland girl gazed and listened at the pane.

Ian lay upon a sofa.  The neglige dressing-gown that he wore enhanced the pallid beauty of his face.  Beside him sat the talcum-powder blonde.  She was feeding him with chocolates.  Hannah understood.  Ian had trifled with her love.  He had bought her lobsters to win her heart, only to cast it aside.

Hannah turned from the window.  She plucked the thistle from her throat and flung it on the ground.  Then, as she turned her eye, she caught sight of the motor standing in the shed.

“The deil machine!” she muttered, while the wild light of Highland frenzy gathered in her eye; then, as she rushed to it and tore the tarpaulin from off it, “Ye’ll no be wanting of a mark the night, Oyster McShamus,” she cried.

A moment later, the motor, with Hannah at the wheel, was thundering down the road to the Glen.  The power was on to the full, and the demented girl clung tight to the steering-gear as the machine rocked and thundered down the descent.  The storm was raging again, and the thunder mingled with the roar of the machine as it coursed madly towards the sea.  The great eye of the motor blazed in front.  The lurid light of it flashed a second on the trees and the burn as it passed, and flashed blinding on the eyes of Oyster as he stood erect on the cliff-side below, musket in hand, and faced the blazing apparition that charged upon him with the old Highland blood surging in his veins.