CHAPTER XXVIII

LINDISFARNE'S STORY

IN Dunyvaig Grace MacDonald was wrestling with her grief; but, like the mountains of her own native Antrim, she was strong and as those mountains looked steadfastly towards the skies, so she too had learned to look constantly heavenwards, no matter what tempests of the heart assailed her. Half of her grief was for her aunt. She knew how Lady Agnes Clan Connell had loved her youngest son, and she felt that she could scarce bear to meet the stricken mother, for she looked upon herself as Coll's destroyer. How glad she was that Ella and Muriel and Lady Agnes were away to Mulindry. The night was over. She had knelt for a time to pray, for what she knew not, unless for her cousin's soul; and now she was thinking her disjointed thoughts again.

Coll was dead. That was the overwhelming truth. And she had killed him. But for her he would never have gone to Mull. And now, what awful things would follow? She knew that Hector, Ella's lover, was perilled, and that Sir Lauchlan MacLean was to die unless Sir Angus could be pacified. The feud between the two clans would be renewed with greater fury, and she was the cause-the innocent cause, indeed, but who would stop to consider that?

Scarcely touching the breakfast Mary brought her, she went to a room that gave upon the sea and looked away southwards towards Ireland, blind to the beauty of Lagavulin Bay with the sun upon its rocky islets girt about with foam. The window was open, and a fresh wind, blowing direct from Antrim, cooled the girl's forehead. There were galleys in the anchorage.

Coll had told her that Spring day that now seemed so long ago, that it was not far from Dunluce to Dunyvaig. Why was there no one she could ask to sail her home? Then she remembered that Lady Agnes had despatched her messenger to Sorley MacDonald, and longed for her grandfather to come. She would tell him all, and he would carry her off from Islay. She hated Islay. The previous night Ella had reproached her before the rest for having sent Coll to his doom, and Muriel had seemed to agree with Ella. How Ella must hate her! They all would hate her.

As she pondered in this unhappy strain, a waiting-maid came with a request from the Earl of Lindisfarne that he might

speak with her. At once she recalled his startling statements. The very memory of him had been thrust into the background of her mind, by Coll MacDonald's fate. She told herself she owed but little gratitude to the Englishman, if indeed he had saved her life, since now that life was reft of all its charm.

Lindisfarne had been a surprised witness of the scene of the night before when Ella MacDonald had passionately accused Grace of being the cause of Coll MacDonald's death. He had listened with amazement to the vehemence with which that fairhaired girl, whom he had always considered gentle as a dove, had attacked her cousin, telling all who listened that Grace had scorned Coll's love. Grace had answered never a word in self-defence, but had wept and all but fainted.

So, thought the Earl, when all was over, that black-browed fellow was a lover; and he recalled the looks that Coll had cast on him in Holyrood. Well, Grace had refused him. Doubtless her emotion had been caused in part by Ella's attack upon her. He would finish his confession to her since he had gone so far with it, so he sent Mary to find out if she would receive him.

Grace was calmer than he had expected, but more woebegone than he liked to see her.

He murmured a few words of sympathy about her cousin's death, but before he could touch upon the subject nearest his heart, Grace spoke. She did not like his tone. Now that Coll was dead, she would have no man speak to her in lover's accents. In her hand she held the silver brooch.

"You said last night this ornament was yours. If that is so, I owe my life to you. Tell me all. Are you in truth my rescuer ?"

"Yes, Grace," he answered;

it was I who saved you, and I will tell you how. I found you sleeping in a cave so small as hardly to be called a cave. I see it now before me-a mere hollow in the cliffs half hidden by two inward leaning rocks. You awoke as I discovered you, and there was a look in your little face that brought to mind one very dear but dead to me. I waited not to think, but took you in my arms and placed you in my boat and rowed you to my ship."

"Your ship?" she interrupted.

Yes. I took you to it. You were asleep again or had fainted, I know not which, but I was glad, for that ship was no sight for a tender child. It was all but dark, and when night fell I placed you in my boat again-you had lain meanwhile as

one dead-and set the boat adrift where the current set strongest for the Antrim shore."

Grace shuddered. A light was breaking in on her.

Lindisfarne stretched out his arms to her. Grace, I love you!" All his heart was in the words. "From the day I saw you wear that brooch in Holyrood, I loved you. Tell me, may I hope for a return of love?"

He leant towards her, but she drew back from him.

"Do not approach me!" she cried. "Were you," she hesitated-" Tell me, were you one of those murderers?"

Her words, her attitude, her horrified expression, chilled him. He had expected something so much different-warm gratitude, if not love itself, from her lips. He was silent. He could not speak.

There was a sound of boats coming to the landing-slip and much excited talk. It was in Gaelic, and Lindisfarne could not understand it Grace did not seem to hear. She was trying to connect this man before her with him who had carried her half-sleeping from the cave long years before.

"Ah!" she cried at length, "your silence accuses you! tells me that you were of those brutal men. For all I know, perhaps it was your hand that killed my mother. And you stand there and speak to me of love!"

Her indignant words loosened his tongue.

"I took no part in that fell slaughter," he pleaded, but she scarcely heard him.

"How dared you, knowing how you had wronged our clan, seek refuge with MacDonald? If Sir Angus only knew the man he sheltered!" She pointed to the door. "Take back your brooch and leave me. I cannot bear to look upon your face again."

His brooch fell on the floor at his feet. She would not even have him touch her hand in taking it. He picked it up and pressed it to his lips. He saw that he was losing her, but made one more effort.

'Hear me to the end," he said, and condemn me not for following where my leader ordered. I was lieutenant under Drake-plain Richard Regnier in those days-and we quarrelled over you; and you, although you knew it not, were my good angel. Drake was for tossing you into the sea, and I obeyed him, as he thought. But when he found the jolly boat was gone he guessed its planks had been between you and the waves. We quarrelled, as I said, and I forsook the sea, for never would I VOL. XLII.-No. 498

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sail with him again, to look, perhaps, upon some other Rathlin. You ask me how I dared seek refuge with MacDonald. I did not seek it; it was offered me, though never would I have accepted but for the thought of you. 'Twas no light thing to live from day to day where an unguarded word might lead to death; but for you I would have cheerfully encountered Scylla and Charybdis."

He drew nearer to her, still with outstretched arms.

"Your hands are blood-stained! Do not touch me," she exclaimed, with every mark of repugnance.

He could not bear to see the hatred in her eyes. He looked at his fingers. Eleven years of court life had made them soft and white almost as the lace that edged the sleeves of his doublet.

'They are not stained with blood of kin of yours," he said. "Believe me or not as you wish; I had no part in Rathlin massacre. Grace, if you reject me, I must fly from Dunyvaig, -whither, I know not. In England I am outlawed. Will you drive me from you? 'Twill be to death. Will you be fatal to two lovers?"

There were footsteps coming hurriedly along the passage unheard by either.

Lindisfarne was almost touching Grace, and she could retreat no farther.

"Murderer!" she screamed, "leave me !" and then the hangings were torn apart, and a man crossed the room with hasty stride, and the English Earl was hurled with a giant's strength through the doorway into the passage without.

Grace MacDonald, with one startled look at the intruder, fainted dead away, to be caught by the same strong arms that had toyed with Lindisfarne, and laid with loving tenderness upon a couch.

(To be concluded.)

MY PAINT-BOX

"I'm your Paint-box, Mother darling," said my precious little

son,

Brandishing with glee a picture, bright with colours, he had done.

"You my paint-box! Are you, Sonnie? Tell me then how that

can be.

You are Mother's dear boy-baby-not her paint-box, that I

see."

"Choose a colour," he persisted, "yellow, red, or white, or blue." Yellow, then," said I; he pointed to his locks of golden hue. "There is yellow for you, Mother; " then his hands with childish

grace

Travelled slowly, forehead downwards o'er the winning little face,

Whilst he cried in baby accent, looking at me straight and true With those eyes of brightest azure, "Mother, darling, there is blue."

Humouring the baby fancy, laughingly I asked for red.

Lips and cheeks were quickly tendered. "That is all I've got," he said.

Don't you want some white, too, Mother, there's no end of it down there,"

Pointing underneath the frilling, shadowing his neck so fair.

. . Then I clasped my darling to me, in my heart I softly prayed

That through life my precious baby might in earnest be arrayed With the colours of his fancy-blue for truth, and red for health, White for purity of living, yellow honour's golden wealth. What more could I wish my treasure than the emblems which

he gave,

True and strong and chaste and honoured from his cradle to