Ailsa was some two years younger than himself. They had been companions
from the time of their infancy. Her father, Sir Oscar Redmain, of
Kilmory Castle, was the steward of Earl Hamish of Bute, and Ailsa was
even as a sister to the two lads of Rothesay Castle. With Kenric, the
younger of the earl's sons, she had been taught what little there was to
be learned in those rude times, under Godfrey Thurstan, the Abbot of St.
Blane's, a wise and holy man who, next to Earl Hamish himself, was held
in the highest honour of all men in Bute.

Now, just as Kenric, unable to soothe Ailsa, was turning to leave her, a
shadow passed between him and the evening sunlight, and at the head of
the bank there walked an aged woman, bearing upon her bent back a bundle
of faggots. Ailsa raised her blue eyes, and at sight of the old woman
shrank back and felt in her dark hair for the sprig of feathery rowan
leaves that she wore there as a charm against witchcraft.

"Give you good e'en, my lord of Bute," said the old woman, seeing Kenric
and dropping her bundle on the ground.

At these strange words Kenric's cheeks grew crimson.

"I am no lord, Elspeth Blackfell," said he, going nearer and trying to
fathom her meaning in her wrinkled and grimy face, "and I know no reason
for your calling me by that high name."

"Not yet," said the old crone, "not yet. But by my sooth, the time will
surely come, and that full speedily, when all shall hail you lord of Bute."

"I seek no sooth from such as you," said Kenric frowning; "and you shall
win naught from me by your false flatteries."