"What we call a latch in England, my lord. I took pains to learn
the Scotch correctly, and I've repeated it to your lordship, word
for word."
"I don't doubt it," returned Lord Lossie, "but for the sense, I can
make nothing of it.--And you think my brother believed the story?"
"He always laughed at it, my lord, but pretended at least to give
in to old Eppie's entreaties."
"You mean that he was more near believing it than he liked to
confess?"
"That's not what I mean, my lord."
"Why do you say pretended then?"
"Because when the news of his death came, some people about the
place would have it that he must have opened the door some time or
other."
"How did they make that out?"
"From the first line of the prophecy."
"Repeat it again."
"The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o' cauld airn," said Mrs
Courthope with emphasis, adding, "The three she always said was a
figure 3."
"That implies it was written somewhere!"
"She said it was legible on the door in her day--as if burnt with
a red hot iron."
"And what does the line mean?"
"Eppie said it meant that the lord of the place who opened that
door, would die by a sword wound. Three inches of cold iron, it
means, my lord."
The marquis grew thoughtful; his brother had died in a sword duel.
For a few moments he was silent.
"Tell me the whole story," he said at length.
Mrs Courthope again reflected, and began. I will tell the story,
however, in my own words, reminding my reader that if he regards
it as an unwelcome interruption, he can easily enough avoid this
bend of the river of my narrative by taking a short cut across to
the next chapter.
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