The twilight had deepened, merging into such night as the summer
in that region knows--a sweet pale memory of the past day. The
sky was full of sparkles of pale gold in a fathomless blue; there
was no moon; the darker sea lay quiet below, with only a murmur
about its lip, and fitfully reflected the stars. The soft wind kept
softly blowing. Behind them shone a light at the harbour's mouth,
and a twinkling was here and there visible in the town above; but
all was as still as if there were no life save in the wind and the
sea and the stars. The whole feeling was as if something had been
finished in heaven, and the outmost ripples of the following rest
had overflowed and were now pulsing faintly and dreamily across
the bosom of the labouring earth, with feeblest suggestion of the
mighty peace beyond. Alas, words can do so little! even such a
night is infinite.
"Ay," answered the laird; "but it maks me dowfart (melancholy)
like, i' the inside."
"Some o' the best things does that," said Malcolm. "I think a kiss
frae my mither wad gar me greet."
He knew the laird's peculiarities well; but in the thought of his
mother had forgotten the antipathy of his companion to the word.
Stewart gave a moaning cry, put his fingers in his ears, and glided
down the slope of the dune seawards.
Malcolm was greatly distressed. He had a regard for the laird far
beyond pity, and could not bear the thought of having inadvertently
caused him pain.
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