For himself he had made a rope ladder, which he could
lower from beneath when he required it, invariably drew up after
him, and never used for coming down.
One night Phemy made her customary signal by knocking against the
trapdoor with a long slip of wood: it opened, and, as usual, the
body of the laird appeared, hung for a moment in the square gap,
like a huge spider, by its two hands, one on each side, then dropped
straight to the floor, when, without a word, he hastened forth,
and Phemy followed.
The night was very still--and rather dark, for it was cloudy about
the horizon, and there was no moon. Hand in hand the two made for
the shore--here very rocky--a succession of promontories with
little coves between. Down into one of these they went by a winding
path, and stood at the lip of the sea. A violet dimness, or, rather,
a semi-transparent darkness, hung over it, through which came now
and then a gleam, where the slow heave of some Triton shoulder caught
a shine of the sky; a hush also, as of sleep, hung over it, which
not to break, the wavelets of the rising tide carefully stilled
their noises; and the dimness and the hush seemed one. They sat
down on a rock that rose but a foot or two from the sand and for
some moments listened in silence to the inarticulate story of the
night. At length the laird turned to Phemy, and taking one of her
hands in both of his, very solemnly said, as if breaking to her
his life's trouble, "Phemy, I dinna ken whaur I cam frae.
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