she had gone to meet her lover a little way down the glen; and they stopped talking so long, about one thing and another, that the sun was almost set before she bethought herself. She said good-night at once, and ran for home. Now she could not reach home without passing the pot, and just as she passed the pot, she saw the last sparkle of the sun as he went down.”
“I should think she ran!” remarked our mouthpiece, Allister.
“She did run,” said Kirsty, “and had just got past the awful black pot, which was terrible enough day or night without such a beast in it, when—”
“But there was the beast in it,” said Allister.
“When,” Kirsty went on without heeding him, “she heard a great whish of water behind her. That was the water tumbling off the beast’s back as he came up from the bottom. If she ran before, she flew now. And the worst of it was that she couldn’t hear him behind her, so as to tell whereabouts he was. He might be just opening his mouth to take her every moment. At last she reached the door, which her father, who had gone out to look for her, had set wide open that she might run in at once; but all the breath was out of her body, and she fell down flat just as she got inside.”
Here Allister jumped from his seat, clapping his hands and crying—
“Then the kelpie didn’t eat her!—Kirsty! Kirsty!”
“No. But as she fell, one foot was left outside the threshold, so that the rowan branch could not take care of it. And the beast laid hold of the foot with his great mouth, to drag her out of the cottage and eat her at his leisure.”
Here Allister’s face was a picture to behold! His hair was almost standing on end, his mouth was open, and his face as white as my paper.
“Make haste, Kirsty,” said Turkey, “or Allister will go in a fit.”
“But her shoe came off in his mouth, and she drew in her foot and was safe.”
Allister’s hair subsided. He drew a deep breath, and sat down again. But Turkey must have been a very wise or a very unimaginative Turkey, for here he broke in with—
“I don’t believe a word of it, Kirsty.”
“What!” said Kirsty—“don’t believe it!”
“No. She lost her shoe in the mud. It was some wild duck she heard in the pot, and there was no beast after her. She never saw it, you know.”
“She saw it look in at her window.”
“Yes, yes. That was in the middle of the night. I’ve seen as much myself when I waked up in the middle of the night. I took a rat for a tiger once.”
Kirsty was looking angry, and her needles were going even faster than when she approached the climax of the shoe.
“Hold your tongue, Turkey,” I said, “and let us hear the rest of the story.”
But Kirsty kept her eyes on her knitting, and did not resume.
“Is that all, Kirsty?” said Allister.
Still Kirsty returned no answer. She needed all her force to overcome the anger she was busy stifling. For it would never do for one in her position to lose her temper because of the unbelieving criticism of a herd-boy. It was a curious instance of the electricity flashed out in the confluence of unlike things—the Celtic faith and the Saxon works. For anger is just the electric flash of the mind, and requires to have its conductor of common sense ready at hand. After a few moments she began again as if she had never stopped and no remarks had been made, only her voice trembled a little at first.
“Her father came home soon after, in great distress, and there he found her lying just within the door. He saw at once how it was, and his anger was kindled against her lover more than the beast. Not that he had any objection to her going to meet him; for although he was a gentleman and his daughter only a shepherd’s daughter, they were both of the blood of the MacLeods.”
This was Kirsty’s own clan. And indeed I have since discovered that the original legend on which her story was founded belongs to the island of Rasay, from which she came.
“But why was he angry with the gentleman?” asked Allister.
“Because he liked her company better than he loved herself,” said Kirsty. “At least that was what the shepherd said, and that he ought to have seen her safe home. But he didn’t know that MacLeod’s father had threatened to kill him if ever he spoke to the girl again.”
“But,” said Allister, “I thought it was about Sir Worm Wymble—not Mr. MacLeod.”
“Sure, boy, and am I not going to tell you how he got the new name of him?” returned Kirsty, with an eagerness that showed her fear lest the spirit of inquiry should spread. “He wasn’t Sir Worm Wymble then. His name was—”
Here she paused a moment, and looked full at Allister.
“His name was Allister—Allister MacLeod.”
“Allister!” exclaimed my brother, repeating the name as an incredible coincidence.
“Yes, Allister,” said Kirsty. “There’s been many an Allister, and not all of them MacLeods, that did what they ought to do, and didn’t know what fear was. And you’ll be another, my bonnie Allister, I hope,” she added, stroking the boy’s hair.
Allister’s face flushed with pleasure. It was long before he asked another question.
“Well, as I say,” resumed Kirsty, “the father of her was very angry, and said she should never go and meet Allister again. But the girl said she ought to go once and let him know why she could not come any more; for she had no complaint to make of Allister; and she had agreed to meet him on a certain day the week after; and there was no post-office in those parts. And so she did meet him, and told him all about it. And Allister said nothing much then. But next day he came striding up to the cottage, at dinner-time, with his claymore (gladius major) at one side, his dirk at the other, and his little skene dubh (black knife) in his stocking. And he was grand to see—such a big strong gentleman I And he came striding up to the cottage where the shepherd was sitting at his dinner.
“‘Angus MacQueen,’ says he, ‘I understand the kelpie in the pot has been rude to your Nellie. I am going to kill him.’ ‘How will you do that, sir?’ said Angus, quite short, for he was the girl’s father. ‘Here’s a claymore I could put in a peck,’ said Allister, meaning it was such good steel that he could bend it round till the hilt met the point without breaking; ‘and here’s a shield made out of the hide of old Rasay’s black bull; and here’s a dirk made of a foot and a half of an old Andrew Ferrara; and here’s a skene dubh that I’ll drive through your door, Mr. Angus. And so we’re fitted, I hope.’ ‘Not at all,’ said Angus, who as I told you was a wise man and a knowing; ‘not one bit,’ said Angus. ‘The kelpie’s hide is thicker than three bull-hides, and none of your weapons would do more than mark it.’ ‘What am I to do then, Angus, for kill him I will somehow?’ ‘I’ll tell you what to do; but it needs a brave man to do that.’ ‘And do you think I’m not brave enough for that, Angus?’ ‘I know one thing you are not brave enough for.’ ‘And what’s that?’ said Allister, and his face grew red, only he did not want to anger Nelly’s father. ‘You’re not brave enough to marry my girl in the face of the clan,’ said Angus. ‘But you shan’t go on this way. If my Nelly’s good enough to talk to in the glen, she’s good enough to lead into the
