you
like a deer!" cried the Chamberlain, his face tingling.

"Losh! the body's cracked," said Mungo Boyd, astounded at this nicety.

"I was to meet her to-night; does she know I'm here?"

"I rapped at her door mysel' to mak' sure she did."

"And what said she?"

"She tauld me to gae awa'. I said it was you, and she said it didna
maitter."

"Didna maitter!" repeated the Chamberlain, viciously, mimicking the
eastland accent. "What ails her?"

"Ye ought to ken that best yoursel'. It was the last thing I daur ask
her," said Mungo Boyd, preparing to retreat, but his precaution was not
called for, he had stunned his man.

The Chamberlain drew his cloak about him, cold with a contemptuous
rebuff. His mouth parched; violent emotions wrought in him, but he
recovered in a moment, and did his best to hide his sense of ignominy.

"Oh, well!" said he, "it's a woman's way, Mungo."

"You'll likely ken," said Mungo; "I've had sma' troke wi' them mysel'."

"Lucky man! And now that I mind right, I think it was not to-night I was
to come, after all; I must have made a mistake. If you have a chance
in the morn's morning you can tell her I wasted a tune or two o' the
flageolet on a wheen stars. It is a pleasant thing in stars, Mungo, that
ye aye ken where to find them when ye want them!"

He left the rock, and took to horse again, and home. All through
the dark ride he fervently cursed Count Victor, a prey of an idiotic
jealousy.

CHAPTER XXV -- RECONCILIATION

Mungo stood in the dark till the last beat of the horse-hoofs could be
heard, and then went in disconsolate and perplexed. He drew the bars as
it were upon a dear friend out in the night, and felt as there had gone
the final hope for Doom and its inhabitants.

"An auld done rickle o' a place!" he soliloquised, lifting a candle high
that it might show the shame of the denuded and crumbling walls. "An
auld done rickle: I've seen a better barn i' the Lothians, and fancy me
tryin' to let on that it's a kind o' Edinbro'! Sirs! sirs! 'If ye canna
hae the puddin' be contented wi' the bree,' Annapla's aye sayin', but
here there's neither bree nor puddin'. To think that a' my traison
against the master i' the interest o' his dochter and himsel' should
come to naethin', and that Sim MacTaggart should be sent awa' wi' a flea
in his lug, a' for the tirravee o' a lassie that canna' value a
guid chance when it offers! I wonder what ails her, if it's no' that
mon-sher's ta'