"It's a fine, saft sleekit win,' laird," said Malcolm, as if they
were meeting for the first time that night. "I think it maun come
frae the blue there, ayont the stars. There's a heap o' wonnerfu'
things there, they tell me; an' whiles a strokin win' an' whiles
a rosy smell, an' whiles a bricht licht, an' whiles, they say, an
auld yearnin' sang, 'ill brak oot, an' wanner awa doon, an' gang
flittin' an' fleein' amang the sair herts o' the men an' women fowk
'at canna get things putten richt."
"I think there are two fools of them!" said the marquis, referring
to the words of the laird.
He was seated with Lady Florimel on the town side of the rock,
hidden from them by one sharp corner. They had seen the mad laird
coming, and had recognised Malcolm's voice.
"I dinna ken whaur I come frae," burst from the laird, the word
whaur drawn out and emphasized almost to a howl; and as he spoke he
moved on again, but gently now, towards the rocks of the Scaurnose.
Anxious to get him thoroughly soothed before they parted, Malcolm
accompanied him. They walked a little way side by side in silence,
the laird every now and then heaving his head like a fretted horse
towards the sky, as if he sought to shake the heavy burden from his
back, straighten out his poor twisted spine, and stand erect like
his companion:
"Ay!" Malcolm began again, as if he had in the meantime been thinking
over the question, and was now assured upon it, "--the win' maun
come frae yont the stars; for dinna ye min', laird? Ye was at the
kirk last Sunday--wasna ye?"
The laird nodded an affirmative, and Malcolm went on.
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