"
"They are even smaller than some," said she, "but I speak in
parables like a Hebrew prophet."
"I marvel little they were sometimes stoned!" says I. "But, you
miserable girl, how could you do it? Why should you care to
tantalise me with a moment?"
"Love is like folk," says she; "it needs some kind of vivers." {22}
"Oh, Barbara, let me see her properly!" I pleaded. "YOU can--you
see her when you please; let me have half an hour."
"Who is it that is managing this love affair! You! Or me?" she
asked, and as I continued to press her with my instances, fell back
upon a deadly expedient: that of imitating the tones of my voice
when I called on Catriona by name; with which, indeed, she held me
in subjection for some days to follow.
There was never the least word heard of the memorial, or none by
me. Prestongrange and his grace the Lord President may have heard
of it (for what I know) on the deafest sides of their heads; they
kept it to themselves, at least--the public was none the wiser; and
in course of time, on November 8th, and in the midst of a
prodigious storm of wind and rain, poor James of the Glens was duly
hanged at Lettermore by Ballachulish.
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