y them! I have sounded my people. If
we do but win this combat--and, with the hope of gaining Catharine, we
SHALL win it--my heart tells me so--I shall be so much lord over their
affections that, were I to take a bride from the almshouse, so it was
my pleasure, they would hail her as if she were a daughter of
MacCallanmore. But you reject my suit?" said Eachin, sternly.

"You put words of offence in my mouth," said the old man, "and may next
punish me for them, since I am wholly in your power. But with my consent
my daughter shall never wed save in her own degree. Her heart would
break amid the constant wars and scenes of bloodshed which connect
themselves with your lot. If you really love her, and recollect her
dread of strife and combat, you would not wish her to be subjected to
the train of military horrors in which you, like your father, must
needs be inevitably and eternally engaged. Choose a bride amongst the
daughters of the mountain chiefs, my son, or fiery Lowland nobles. You
are fair, young, rich, high born, and powerful, and will not woo in
vain. You will readily find one who will rejoice in your conquests, and
cheer you under defeat. To Catharine, the one would be as frightful
as the other. A warrior must wear a steel gauntlet: a glove of kidskin
would be torn to pieces in an hour."

A dark cloud passed over the face of the young chief, lately animated
with so much fire.

"Farewell," he said, "the only hope which could have lighted me to fame
or victory!"

He remained for a space silent, and intensely thoughtful, with downcast
eyes, a lowering brow, and folded arms. At length he raised his hands,
and said: "Father,--for such you have been to me--I am about to tell you
a secret. Reason and pride both advise me to be silent, but fate urges
me, and must be obeyed. I am about to lodge in you the deepest and
dearest secret that man ever confided to man. But beware--end this
conference how it will--beware how you ever breathe a syllable of what
I am now to trust to you; for know that, were you to do so in the most
remote corner of Scotland, I have ears to hear it even there, and a
hand and poniard to reach a traitor's bosom. I am--but the word will not
out!"

"Do not speak it then," said the prudent glover: "a secret is no longer
safe when it crosses the lips of him who owns it, and I desire not a
confidence so dangerous as you menace me with."

"Ay, but I must speak, and you must hear," said the youth. "In