You must be surprised, my dear cousin, at my unexpected return. ⁠I will frankly confess that I am. How did you find your friends in Glenrowan? ⁠With their house full of disagreeable visiters and discomfort: another day of it would have cast me into a fever; so I will trespass on your hospitality a week longer, knowing how kindly disposed you have always been to the child of your early friend. ​ ⁠It would be strange, indeed, if the daughter of Duncan Gordon were not welcome here. ⁠How has poor Jessie been since I left you? ⁠I have but a sorrowful account to give of her. ⁠Had she any rest last night? Does she look as wildly as she did? Were any strange noises heard in the chamber during the night? ⁠Ay; noises that made me start and tremble, and feel a horrid consciousness that some being or other was in the room near me, though to the natural eye invisible. ⁠What kind of sounds were they? Why did you think they were so near you? ⁠I was sitting by the table, with my head resting on my hand, when the door leading from the back staircase, which I am certain I had bolted in the evening, burst open. ⁠And what followed? ​ ⁠I verily thought to see some elrich form or other make its appearance, and I sat for some moments rivetted to my chair, without power to move hand or foot, or almost to breathe. ⁠Yet you saw nothing? ⁠Nothing. ⁠And heard only the bursting of the door? ⁠Only that for a time: but afterwards, when I listened intently, I heard strange whisperings near me, and soft steps, as of unshod feet, passing between me and the bed. ⁠Footsteps? ⁠Ay; and the curtains of the bed began to shake as if touched by a hand, or the motion of some passing body. Then I knew that they were dealing with my poor child, and I had no power to break the spell of their witchcraft, for I had no voice to speak. ⁠You had no power to speak? ​ ⁠No; though the Lord's prayer was on my lips, I was unable to utter it. ⁠Heaven preserve us! what a dreadful situation you were in! Did the poor child seem to notice any thing? ⁠I cannot say how she looked when the door burst open; but as soon as I could observe her, her eyes were wide open, gazing fixedly, as if some ugly visage were hanging over her, from which she could not turn away, and presently she fell into a convulsion, and I at that instant recovered my voice and my strength, and called nurse from her closet to assist her. ⁠What did nurse think? ⁠Nurse said she was sure that both Grizeld Bane and Mary Macmurren had been in the room. And this I will take my oath to, that afterwards, when she fell quiet, she muttered in her sleep, in a thick untuneable voice, and amongst the words which she uttered, I distinctly heard the name of Mary Macmurren. ​ ⁠What an awful thing it is if people can have power from the evil spirit to inflict such calamity! ⁠Awful indeed! ⁠How can they purchase such power? ⁠The ruin of a Christian soul is price enough for any thing. Satan, in return for this, will bestow power enough to do whatever his bondswoman or bondsman listeth. ⁠Yet they are always miserable and poor. ⁠Not always; but malignant gratifications are what they delight in, and nothing else is of much value to them. ⁠It may be so:—it is strange and fearful! ⁠I must go to my closet now, and mix the medicine for poor Jessie, to be ready at the proper time; for I expect the minister to pray by her to-night, and would have every thing prepared before he comes.⁠[Exit. ​ ⁠Ay, if there be in reality such supernatural agency, by which a breast fraught with passion and misery may find relief. (Starting back.) Dreadful resource! I may not be so assisted. (After walking to and fro in great perturbation.) Oh, Dungarren, Dungarren! that a paltry girl, who is not worthy to be my tirewoman, the orphan of a murderer—a man disgraced, who died in a pit and was buried in a moor; one whose very forehead is covered with blushing shame when the eye of an irreproachable gentle-woman looks upon her; whose very voice doth alter and hesitate when a simple question of her state or her family is put to her,—that a creature thus naturally formed to excite aversion and contempt should so engross thy affections! It makes me mad!——"May not be so assisted!" Evil is but evil, and torment is but torment!—I have felt both—I have felt them to extremity? what have I then to fear? (Starts on hearing the door open behind her, as Phemy enters.) Who is there? ⁠Only me, madam. ⁠What brings thee here? ​ ⁠I came to know if you will trust the Glasgow carrier, who is just come for the orders of the family, with your commission to the silk shop. ⁠What art thou telling me? ⁠Of your commission to the silk shop. ⁠I don't understand thee. ⁠The additional yards of silk that are wanted. ⁠I want none, fool! Thy wits are bewildered. ⁠Not my wits, Madam. What will you please to have, then, for the trimming of your new mantua? ⁠Newt skins and adder skins, an thou wilt. ⁠That might do for a witch's gown, indeed: Grizeld Bane might have a garniture of that sort. ⁠What dost thou know of Grizeld Bane? ​ ⁠Stories enow, if they be true. It is she, or Mary Macmurren, who has, as they say, bewitched the poor young lady here; and it was a spell cast by her, that made the farmer's pretty daughter fall over the crag and break her leg, the week before her wedding. ⁠Before her wedding? ⁠Yes, truly, Madam; and no wedding at all will ever follow such an untoward mischance. ⁠Who told thee this? ⁠Everybody tells it, and knows it to be true.—(After a pause.) But the carrier is waiting.—She does not heed me. (Aside.) What is the matter, Madam? Are you not well? ⁠Dost thou know Grizeld Bane? ⁠Heaven forfend! ⁠Dost thou know where she lives? ​ ⁠Somewhere not far distant, I believe: Black Bawldy the herd knows her den well enough. ⁠Is he in the house at present? ⁠Very likely; for this is the time when his cows are brought in for the milking.

⁠Go find him, if thou canst, and send him to me immediately. [Exit Phemy.] If there be a spell to break wedlock, and to break affection also, it were well worth its purchase at any price; yea, though the soul's jeopardy were added to the gold.

⁠I had not far to seek for him: he stood waiting in the passage, for the cooling of his brose. ⁠Come nearer, Bawldy. Dost thou know where Grizeld Bane lives? ⁠Ay, that I do, to my cost. She and her black cat, too, live owre near my milk kye, Brindle ​and Hawky gi' but half the milk they should gi', and we wat weel whare the ither half gangs to. ⁠Never mind that, my good lad! Hie to her immediately, and tell her to come to me. ⁠To you, Leddy? ⁠Yes: to come to me without loss of time.—There is money for thee. (Giving money.) Do thy errand speedily and secretly: let nobody know that I have sent thee. ⁠An' she's to come to you here, hidlings, as it war? ⁠Yes, Bawldy; and when she comes, let her wait for me in the cattle shed, by the wood, and I'll meet her there. Dost thou understand me, man? Go quickly. ⁠The night, Leddy? ⁠Yes, to-night. Why dost thou look so scared? ⁠I darna gang to her at night.—Gude be wi' us! an I war to find her at her cantrips, I had ​better be belaired in a bog, or play coupcarling owre the craig o' Dalwhirry. ⁠She must be very terrible to make thee so afraid. ⁠When she begins to mutter wi' her white wuthered lips, and her twa gleg eyen are glowering like glints o' wildfire frae the hollow o' her dark bent brows, she's enough to mak a trooper quake; ay, wi' baith swurd and pistol by his side.—No, no, Leddy! the sun maun be up in the lift whan I venture to her den. ⁠Thou wilt get there before it be dark, if thou make good speed. ⁠No, though I had the speed o' a mawkin. It is gloaming already; black clouds are spreading fast owre the sky, and far-off thunner is growling. There is a storm coming on, and the fiends o' the air are at wark; I darna gang till the morning.

⁠Timid loon! retire then, and go in the morning. But see that thou keep the secret. I'll give thee more money, if thou prove trusty and diligent.⁠[Exit Bawldy. ​

⁠The carrier will set off in a trice, Madam. ⁠Let him go. ⁠And no orders given? ⁠Give him what orders thou wilt, and plague me no more.
⁠[Exeunt severally.

Before the Gate of Dungarren Tower: Anderson and other Servants are seen loitering within the Gate.

Enter Dungarren, with a fowling-piece in his hand, and a pouch or bag swung from his shoulder, as returned from sport.

⁠I'm right glad to see your honour returned; for the night draws on, and it wad hae been nae joke, I trow, to hae been belated on a haunted warlock moor, and thunner growling i' the welkin. ⁠The sky indeed looks threatening. ​ ⁠And what sport has your honour had the day? The birds grow wilder every year, now. ⁠Think you so, Anderson? ⁠Trowth do I! There's something uncanny about them too. It's a fearfu' time we live in.

⁠I have done pretty well, however. Give this to the housekeeper to increase the stores of her larder. Unfastening the bag, and giving it to Anderson.)

⁠By my faith! she'll be glad enough o' sick a supply; for Madam Annabell is come back again, wi' that Episcopal lassie frae the Isle o' Barra, that reads out o' a prayer book, and ca's hersell her Leddy's gentlewoman. Lord be mercifu' to us! the leddy 's bad enough, but Job himsell could hardly thole the gentlewoman. ⁠What has brought her back so soon? She was to have staid a week in Dumbartonshire. ⁠That's more than I can say: but here comes Black Bawldy, wha was sent for to speak to her; ​ay, and gaed into the very parlour till her. He, maybe, kens what has brought her back. ⁠That's strange enough. ⁠Nae mair strange than true. Into the very parlour: I saw him set his dirty feet on the clean floor wi' my ain eyen. ⁠So, Bawldy, thou 'rt become company for ladies in a parlour. ⁠Toot, your honour! ony body's gude enough to haver wi' them, when they're wearying. ⁠What makes Mrs. Annabell return to us so soon, if she be wearying? ⁠She'll no weary now, when your honour's come hame. ⁠Has any thing happen'd? She was to have staid a week in Dumbartonshire. ⁠Maybe she has been a week there, o' her ain ​reckoning, tho' we ca' it only twa days. Folks said when she gaed awa', that she wou'd na be lang awa'. It wou'd be as easy to keep a moth frae the can'le, or a cat frae the milk-house, as keep her awa' frae the tower o' Dungarren (lowering his voice) when the laird is at hame. ⁠What say'st thou, varlet? ⁠Only what I hear folks say, your honour.

⁠Go thy ways to thy loft and thy byre. Folks are saucy, and teach lads to forget themselves, [Exit Bawldy.] ( Pointing to the bag.) Take it in, Anderson.⁠ [Exit Anderson.

⁠I thought to have crossed the threshold of my own house in peace.—To be pestered with the passion of an indelicate vixen!—She fastens her affection upon me like a doctor's blister-sheet, strewed with all the stinging powders of the torrid zone, for daring and desperate medication. (After pacing to and fro in a disturbed manner.) And my gentle Violet, too: must she be still subjected to her scornful looks and insulting insinuations? A noble spirit like hers, under ​such painful circumstances to be exposed to such insolence! It shall not be: I will not suffer it. (A thoughtful pause.) To affront a lady in my own house? Not to be thought of! To leave the country at once, and let the sea and its waves roll between us? Ay, this were well, were not all that is dear to me left behind;—my mother, my poor afflicted sister, my dear, dear Violet, the noble distressed Violet Murrey.—No; I will stay and contend with the termagant, as I would with an evil spirit. Had she the soul of a woman within her, though the plainest and meanest of her sex, I would pity and respect her; but as she is——O! shame upon it! she makes me as bad as herself. I know not what to do: I dare not enter yet.

⁠[Exit the way by which he came. ​

A wild Moor, skirted on one side by a thick tangled Wood, through which several open paths are seen. The Stage darkened to represent faint moonlight through heavy gathering clouds. Thunder and lightning.

Enter by the front Elspy Low, Mary Macmurren, and her son, Wilkin, who stop and listen to the thunder.

⁠Ay, ay! this sounds like the true sound o' Princedome and Powerfu'ness. ⁠Ay; it sounds royally! we shall na mare be deceived; it wull prove a' true at last. ⁠This very night we shall ken what we shall ken. We shall be wi' the Beings of power—be wi' them and be of them.

⁠(Thunder again.) ​

⁠It is an awfu' din, and tells wi' a lordly voice wha is coming and at hand: we shall na mare be deceived. ⁠Dinna tug at me sa wickedly, Wilkin; thou shalt ha' a bellyfu' soon o' the fat o' the lawn, my poor glutton. ⁠Fou! fou! meat! great meat!—hurr, hurr! (making a noise in his throat to express pleasure) it's a-coming! ⁠We shall ha' what we list at last,—milk and meat! meat and malt! ⁠Mingling and merry-making; and revenge for the best sport of a'! ⁠Ay; the hated anes will pay the cost, I trow. We'll sit at our good coags of cream, and think o' the growling carle's kye wi' their udders lank and sapless, and the goodwife greeting ow'r her kirn. ⁠Ha, ha, ha! there's good spice in that, woman, to relish far poorer fare. ​ ⁠They refused us a han'fu' in our greatest need, but now it wull be our turn to ha' fou sacks and baith cakes and kebbucks at command, while their aumery is bare. ⁠Ha, ha, ha! there's good spice in that, kimmer.

⁠(A very loud peal, &c.)

⁠Hear ye that! the thunner grows louder and louder; and here she comes wi' her arms in the air and her spirit as hie as the clouds. Her murky chief and his murky mates wull soon fra a' quarters o' the warld, I warrant ye, come trooping to their tryste.

Enter Grizeld Bane from the wood by the bottom of the Stage, advancing with wild frantic gestures.

⁠Come, come, my mighty master!

​

⁠Dost thou really see him? ⁠Dost thou see him? or hear him? ⁠Is he near us? ⁠Is he on the moor? ⁠Hold your peace, wretches! he may start up by your side in an instant, and scare the very life from your body, if ye forget what I told you. ⁠I have na' forgotten it.

⁠Nor I neither. We're to tak' han's first of a'. (Takes Elspy by the hand, and then turns to Wilkin.) And thine, too, Wilkin.

⁠Meat, meat! ⁠No, glutton; thou mun gi' me thy haun and go round, as I told thee. ​ ⁠Round! round! pots be round, dishes be round; a' fou for Wilkin! burr, burr!

⁠(Loud thunder.)

⁠Is he coming yet? ⁠Is he coming, Grizeld Bane? I see nothing. ⁠Hold thy peace, or I'll strangle thee! Is it for a wretch like thee to utter earthly words on the very verge of such an awful presence? ⁠For God's sake!—for Satan's sake!—for ony sake, let gang thy terrible grip.

⁠(A tremendous loud peal.) ​

⁠There's an astounding din to make your ears tingle! as if the welkin were breaking down upon us with its lading of terror and destruction! The lightning has done as I bade it. I see him, I see him now. ⁠Where, where? I see nothing. ⁠Nor I either, Grizeld. ⁠Look yonder to the skirt of that cloud: his head is bending over it like a knight from the keep of a castle. Hold ye quiet for a space; quiet as the corse in its coffin: he will be on the moor in a trice. ⁠Trowth, I think he will; for I'm trembling sa. ⁠I'm trem'ling too, woman; and sa is poor Wilkin. ⁠Ay, roar away! glare away! roar to the very outrage of roaring! Brave heralding, I trow, for the prince of the power of the air!—He will be here, anon. ​ ⁠I'm sure he will, for my legs bend under me sa, I canna' stand upright.

⁠Hold thy tongue! he is on the moor. Look yonder, where he is moving with strides like the steps of a man, and light by his side. Dost thou see it? (To Mary Macmurren.)

⁠Preserve us from skathe! I see like a man wi' a lantern. Dost thou see it, Elspy? ⁠Distinctly: and wi' what fearfu' strides he comes on! ⁠It is him; he approaches. Bow your heads instantly to the earth, and repeat the Lord's Prayer backwards, if you can. ⁠Do not pass from us! stay with us; speak to us, Satan! Our spells are shrewd and sure, and ​thou knowest we have served and will serve thee. Turn not away! Give us power and we 'll worship thee. Art thou not come to our tryste? ⁠Miserable women! what brings you here at this hour in this place? With whom have you made a tryste? ⁠With thyself, mighty Satan! for we know thee well enough for all the skreen of darkness that encircles thee. ⁠What is your will with me? ⁠Give us power, and we'll worship thee. ⁠What power do you covet? Power over goods and chattels, or power over bodies and spirits? Say which, by your compact, you would purchase? ⁠Both, both! ⁠Ye ask too much; take your choice of the one or the other. ​ ⁠What say'st thou, Elspy? ⁠I'll consider first. ⁠Goods and chattels for my compact. ⁠Sordid caitiff! Bodies and spirits for mine! ⁠I will see to that at convenient season. ⁠Now, now! ⁠Let us have it now, mighty master, and we'll swear to the compact on this spot, ⁠Have ye considered it? Ye shall have your will on earth for a term, and then ye must serve my will in the pit of fire and brimstone for ever. ⁠Be it so! and make this very night the beginning of our power. ⁠Ye are rare mates, indeed, to be so eagerly set upon evil. ​ ⁠Are we not, master? Swear us forthwith, and remove that dull darkness from thy presence. Call round thy liege imps and begin. Ay, ay; they are all coming. ⁠Where, where, Grizeld? ⁠A score of grinning faces to the right and the left. Dost thou not see them, blind mole that thou art? But where is he who was wont to attend thee, great chieftain? Thou hast never a liege man like him. ⁠Whom dost thou mean, haggard dame? ⁠He with the wreath round his throat; the fellest and bravest of them all. ⁠He shall be with me when I meet you again. ⁠Do not leave us now, princely master! do not deceive us again: bind us and give us power ere we part. ⁠Go to the further side of the wood, and I'll follow you: I may not bind you here, for I hear ​the sound of horses approaching. Begone; mortal man must not disturb our rites.

⁠And so there be verily such wretched creatures in the world, who are, or desire to be, in league with the wicked one! It is a fearful and mortifying glimpse of human nature. I hope they have not scared my poor child upon her way; or rather, that this awful storm has prevented her from coming abroad. O, would I had not requested her to meet me! for I know her brave spirit and the strength of her affection; neither storm nor danger will deter her. Why did I tempt her? Alas, my gentle child! is this the love of a parent? Here she is! ​ Enter Violet from the same side by which Rutherford disappeared, and he runs to her and locks her in his arms, both remaining silent for a time.

⁠My father! my dear, dear father! ⁠My own sweet Violet! all that I can call my own, and worth all that I have lost. But for thee, my dear child, I should in truth be, what I am now, by all but thyself, believed to be,—no longer a being of this world. ⁠Say not so, my dear father! are there not kindness and humanity every where, whether you receive it under one name or another? And if this be not the case, take me with you, and you shall be no longer friendless and bereft. ⁠No, Violet; that I will never do. To see thee by stealth, were it but a few times in the course of years, with sad dreary intervals between, is still worth living for; and more than a man, stained with the blood of a fellow creature, deserves. ⁠Ah, why will you tax yourself so harshly! The quarrel was fastened on you. ​ ⁠Fool that I was, to let the angry reproaches of a fool get such mastery over me! were reason and prowess bestowed upon me for such a despicable use? Oh! had Fatheringham, who stood by, and was the only witness of the combat, endeavoured, as he might have done, to reconcile us, that blood had never been shed. ⁠But what is past is past; let us think of the lot which is our portion now—of that which lies before us. I will love you always, and think of you always, and be with you always, if you will permit me. The rank and the fare and the home that are good enough for you are good enough for me. And if Fatheringham be still in life, he may again appear to clear you from this crime. In the mean time, your supposed death and your supposed body being found and buried by your friends, give you in any distant retreat a complete security. Let me then, my dear father, go with you now, or follow you soon. ⁠Is there not one to be left behind who is dear to you? ⁠No one who is or ought to be so dear as you. And I shrink from the thought of being received into a family who will despise me. ​ ⁠Violet, thou art too proud: thou hast got my infirmity by inheritance. Yes, I was proud once: but, dead in men's belief, and separated from the social world, I am now, as it were, a dead man in my own feelings. I look on the things of this earth as though I belonged not to it. I am meek and chastened now, and will not encourage thee in the cherishing of imprudent unreasonable pride. But we will talk of this elsewhere: I hear voices from the wood. ⁠I fear they will return when they find I do not join them. ⁠Whom do you mean? ⁠Didst thou meet nobody on the way? ⁠Nobody but our good minister and his man, going, as I suppose, to the Tower of Dungarren, to pray by the sick child. ⁠I hope he did not see you. ⁠I hope he did not: for I tried to conceal ​myself behind a bush; and he and the servant passed me in silence.

⁠[Wild cries without, nearer than before.]

⁠Let us leave this spot: those creatures are returning to it. I will tell thee about them when we are in safety⁠[Exeunt in haste.

⁠We may a' gang to our beds now, that are nae appointed to sit up. ⁠What a terrible storm we have had! The brazen sconces in the hall, with the guns, pistols, pikes, and claymores, made such a clattering, as if they were coming down upon our heads altogether, with the slates and rafters of the old roof on the top of all. I'm certain a thunderbolt struck somewhere or other on this unlucky house: I wish I were out of it. ​ ⁠It's a pity ye dinna get your wish, then. I'm sure there's naebody rightfully belanging to this family that has ony mind to baulk it. ⁠Don't be so hasty, Mr. Anderson: I had no intention to disparage the house of Dungarren, though there be neither silk nor tapestry on its walls, like the houses that I have lived in. ⁠Weel, weel! be it sae! Silk and tapestry may be plentier than manners in the rich island of Barra. ⁠I have lived in other places than Barra, I assure you. ⁠I dinna doubt ye hae; but let us us mak nae mair quarrelling about it now, whan we shou'd a' be thankfu' that we war sheltered frae sic a storm in ony house.—Grizeld Bane and her mates war on the moor the night, I'll tak my aith on't. God help ony poor wanderer wha may hae been belated near their haunts! I wadna hae been in his skin for the best har'st fee that ever was paid into a Lowlander's purse or a Highlander's spleuchan. ​ ⁠Was not the minister expected? ⁠O! he, belike, might cross the moor unscathed. It wad be a bauld witch or warlock either, that wad meddle wi' the minister. And that is the reason, I reckon, why he winna believe there is ony sic thing in a' the country about. ⁠Here comes Bawldy. What keeps thee up, man? ⁠I'm waiting for the minister. ⁠Wha bade thee wait? What is Duncan about? ⁠He's about a Highlandman's business, just doing naething at a'; and wad be snoring on the settle in the turning o' a bannock, if fear wad let him sleep. ⁠Is he more afraid than the rest of you? ⁠He has mair cause, mistress: he has seen ​bogles enow in his time, and kens a' the gaits and fashions o' them. ⁠Has he indeed. ⁠Ay, certes; by his ain tale, at least. We hae heard o' mawkins starting up in the shapes of auld women, whan chased to a cross running burn, but Duncan has seen it. Nae wonner if he be feared! ⁠Weel, than, an thou will sit up, he'll tell thee stories to keep thee frae wearying; and I dinna care if I join ye mysell for an hour or sae, for I'm naewise disposed for my ain bed in that dark turret-chaumer. ⁠But gin ye keep company wi' stable loons and herds, Mr. Anderson, ye'll gi' them, nae doubt, a wee smack o' your ain higher calling. Is the key o' the cellar in your pouch? My tongue's unco dry after a' this fright. ⁠Awa', ye pawky thief! Dost tu think that I'll herrie the laird's cellar for thee or ony body?—But there's the whisky bottle in my ain cupboard, wi' some driblets in it yet, that ye may tak; and deil a drap mair shall ye get, an ​thy tongue were as guizened as a spelding. I wonder wha learnt sic a youngster as thee to be sae pawky. ⁠Bawldy has by nature cunning enough to lose nothing for want of asking; and Mr. Anderson, too, has his own natural faculty for keeping what he has got.—Good night to you both. ⁠Good night to ye. (Half aside.) I'm sure I wad rather bid you good night than good morrow, at ony time.⁠[Exeunt severally.

A large Chamber, with a Bed at the bottom of the Stage, on which is discovered a sick Child, and Lady Dungarren seated by it.

⁠Is she asleep? ⁠Yes; she has been asleep for some minutes. ​ ⁠Let me watch by her then, and go you to rest. ⁠I dare not: her fits may return. ⁠The medicine you have given her will, I trust, prevent it: so do go to rest, my dear mother! ⁠No, dear Robert; her disease is one over which no natural medicine has any power. As sure as there are witches and warlocks on earth—and we know there are—they have been dealing with her this night. ⁠Be not too sure of this. The noise of the storm, and the flashes of lightning, might alarm her, and bring on convulsions. ⁠Ah, foolish youth! thou art proud of the heathenish learning thou hast gleaned up at college, and wilt not believe what is written in Scripture. ⁠Nay, mother, say only that I do not believe— ​ ——such explanations of Scripture as have given countenance to superstitious alarm. Our good pastor himself attaches a different meaning to those passages you allude to, and has but little faith in either witches or apparitions. ⁠Yes, he has been at college, good man as he is. Who else would doubt of it? ⁠But Violet Murrey has not been at college, and she has as little faith in them as Mr. Rutherford. ⁠If Violet Murrey's faith, or pretended faith, be the rule we are to go by, the devil and his bondsfolk will have a fine time of it in this unhappy county of Renfrew. She will take especial care to speak no words for the detection of mischief which she profits by. ⁠Profits by! What means that foul insinuation? ⁠Be not so violent, either of you. Soften that ​angry eye, Robert; and remember you are speaking to a lady. ⁠And let her remember that she is speaking of a lady. ⁠What rank the daughter of a condemned malefactor holds in the country, better heralds than I must determine. ⁠Malignant and heartless reproach! Provoke me not beyond measure, Annabella. For this good woman's sake, for thy own sake, for the sake of female dignity and decorum, provoke me no more with words so harsh, so unjust, so unseemly. ⁠Not so unseemly, Dungarren, as degrading the heir of an honourable house, with an attachment so——But I will say no more. ⁠You have said too much already. ⁠Hush, hush! for Heaven's sake be peaceable! You have wakened the child from her sleep. Look how she gazes about. Nurse! nurse! ho!⁠(Calling loud off the Stage.) ​ ⁠Are they tormenting her again? They hae time now, when their storm and their revelry is past, to cast their cantrips here, I trow. (Shaking her fist angrily.) O you ugly witch! show your elrich face from behint the hangings there, an' I'll score you aboon the breath wi' a jocteleg. ⁠Dost thou see any thing? ⁠I thought I just saw a waft o' her haggart visage in the dark shadow o' the bed hangings yonder. But see or no see, she is in this room, as sure as I am a Christian saul. What else shou'd mak the bairn stare sae, and wriggle wi' her body sae miserably? ⁠But are not you a bold woman, Nurse, to threaten a witch so bloodily? ⁠I'm bauld enough to tak vengeance at my ain haun upon ony body that torments my bairn, though it war Satan himsel. Howsomever, I carry about a leaf o' the Bible sewed to my pouch, now; for things hae come to sic a fearfu' ​pitch, that crooked pins and rowan-tree do next to nae good at a'—Bless us a'! I wush the minister war come. ⁠And you have your wish, Nurse; for here he is. ⁠My good Sir, you are welcome: but my heart reproaches me for having brought you from home in such a dreadful night.—What is the matter with you? ⁠He cannot speak. ⁠Sit down in this chair, my good Sir. He is going to faint. ⁠Has the lightning touched you, dear Sir? ⁠Not the lightning. ​ ⁠Has aught happened to you on the moor? ⁠Have you seen any thing?—He has seen something. ⁠Have you seen any thing, my good Sir? ⁠Nought, by God's grace, that had any power to hurt me. ⁠But you have seen something which has overcome your mind to an extraordinary degree. Were another man in your case, I should say that superstitious fears had o'ermaster'd him, and played tricks with his imagination. ⁠What is natural or unnatural, real or imaginary, who shall determine? But I have seen that, which, if I saw it not, the unassisted eyesight can give testimony to nothing.

⁠What was it? What was it?
⁠[Rutherford gives no answer]. ​

⁠You saw, then, what has moved you so much, distinctly and vividly? ⁠Yea, his figure and the features of his face, as distinctly, in the bright glare of the lightning, as your own now appear at this moment. ⁠A man whom you knew, and expected not to find at such an hour and in such a place. But what of this? Might not such a thing naturally happen? ⁠No, Robert Kennedy: he whose form and face I distinctly saw, has been an indweller of the grave these two years. ⁠Indeed! Are you sure of it? ⁠I put his body into the coffin with mine own hands, and helped to carry it to the grave; yet there it stood before me, in the bright blazing of the storm, and seemed to look upon me, too, with a look of recognition most strange and horrible. ​ ⁠Whose ghost was it? Who was the dead man you saw? ⁠I reckoned, Madam, but upon one listener. ⁠Nay, be not angry with her. Who can well refrain from listening to such a tale? And be not angry with me neither, when I ask you one question, which it so much concerns me to know. Saw you aught besides this apparition? any witches or creatures of evil? ⁠I will answer that question, Lady, at another time, and in greater privacy. ⁠He has seen them; it is evident he has. But some of his friends might be amongst them: there may be good cause for secrecy and caution. ⁠Why do you press so unsparingly upon a man whose spirits have, from some cause or other, received such a shock? ⁠I forgive her, Dungarren: say no more about it. It is God's goodness to me that I am here ​unhurt, again to do the duty of a Christian pastor to my dear and friendly flock now convened. Let me pray by the bed of that poor suffering child, for her, for myself, and for all here present. ⁠Let us put her in a different position before he begin: she must be tired of that; for see, she moves again uneasily. ⁠It is a most extraordinary and appalling apparition you have seen. What do you think of it? ⁠What can I think of it, but that the dead are sometimes permitted to revisit the earth, and that I verily have seen it. ⁠I would more readily believe this than give credit to the senseless power and malevolence of witchcraft, which you have always held in derision. ⁠It is presumption to hold any thing in derision. ​ ⁠Ha! say you so, in this altered tone of voice! Have you met with any thing to-night to change your opinions on this subject? Have you seen any of the old women, so strangely spoken of, on the moor? ⁠Would that I had only seen such! ⁠The voice in which you speak, the expression with which you look upon me, makes me tremble. Am I concerned with aught that you have seen? ⁠You are, my dear Robert, and must think no more of Violet Murrey. (A deep silence.) Yes; it has stricken you to the heart. Think upon it as you ought. I expect no answer. ⁠But I must——I will try——I must answer you, for I——(tearing open his waistcoat, and panting for breath.)——I can believe nothing that accuses her. ⁠Were a daughter of my own concerned, I could not be more distressed. ⁠It makes me distracted to hear thee say so! ​⁠Go to thine own room, and endeavour to compose thy mind, and I will pray for thee here. Pray for thyself, too, in private: pray earnestly, for there is, I fear, a dreadful warfare of passion abiding thee.