"Wha is it? Wha suld it be, but our ain young laird? Our ain bonny
laddie? Our young Markis o' Arondelle? Oh, waes the day he ever left
Lone!" exclaimed Dame Girzie, lifting her apron to her eyes.

"The Marquis of Arondelle!" echoed Salome, catching her breath, and
gazing with even more interest upon the glorious picture.

Even while she gazed, the ray that had lighted it for a moment was
withdrawn by the setting sun, and the picture was swallowed up in sudden
darkness.

"The Marquis of Arondelle," repeated Salome in a low reverent tone, as
if speaking to herself.

"Ay, the young Markis o' Arondelle; wae worth the day he went awa'!" said
the housekeeper, wiping her eyes.

Salome turned suddenly to the weeping woman.

"I have heard--I have heard--" she began in a low, hesitating voice, and
then she suddenly stopped and looked at the dame.

"Ay, young leddy, nae doubt ye hae heard unco mony a fule tale anent our
young laird; but if ye would care to hear the verra truth, ye suld do so
frae mysel. But come noo, leddy. It is too dark to see onything mair in
this room. We'll gae out on the battlements gin ye like, and tak' a luke
at the landscape while the twilight lasts," said Dame Girzie.

Salome assented with a nod, and they climbed the last steep flight of
stairs, cut in the solid wall, and leading from this upper room to the