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Updated: July 24, 2025
Black Duncan but wanted a good listener. He was not quite the world's traveller he would have Gilian believe; but he had voyaged in many outlandish parts and a Skyeman's memory is long and his is the isle where fancy riots. He made his simple ventures round the coast voyages terrible and unending.
Gilian read it, and the brothers standing by the window resumed their talk about the missing girl: it was the subject inspired by every glance into the street where each passerby, each loiterer at a close mouth, was obviously canvassing the latest news. "There's her uncle away by," said the Paymaster, straining his head to follow a figure passing on the other side of the street.
"Because this is the Lady's Linn," said Gilian, "and to be telling a story you must be putting a place in it or it will not sound true. And Gillesbeg Aotram who told me the story " "Gillesbeg Aotram!" she said in amaze. "He's daft. If I thought it was a daft man's story I had to hear I " "He's not daft at all," protested Gilian. "He's only different from his neighbours."
"Well, Gilian?" said he, a touch of irony in his accent, himself looking a droll figure, hunched round his books and turning like a weathercock jerkily to keep the umbrella between him and the wind that strained its whalebone ribs till they almost snapped. Gilian stopped, looked hard at the ground, said never a word. And old Brooks, over him, gazed at the wet figure with puzzlement and pity.
"Oh, 'ille, what's the matter with you?" asked the Paymaster in Gaelic, struck that sorrow should so long remain with a child. Gilian started guiltily, flushed to the nape of his neck and stammered an explanation or excuse. "The bird, the bird!" said he, turning and looking at the dolorous piper of the marsh.
Then you are the only one in the parish, I am sure, so ignorant of my poor business. They're they're looking for a man for me. Is it not a pretty thing, Gilian?" She laughed with a bitterness that shocked him. "Is it not a pretty thing, Gilian?" she went on.
Gilian was waiting on the final proof, that was only in the girl's own voice. He remembered her of old a daring and entrancing vocalist, in the harmony one thread of gold among the hodden grey of those simple unstudied psalmodists.
"Like the mavis,9' cried Gilian, still in his Gaelic and in a transport of recollection. "Where did you hear her?" asked Miss Mary. Gilian, flushed and uneasy, told her of the performance in the ship.
Gilian searched in a reeling head for some answer he could not find; his parched lips could not have uttered it, even if he had found it, so he nodded. "Put me to my bed, somebody," said the General, breaking in suddenly on the shock of the moment, and staggering to one side a little as he spoke. "Put me to my bed, somebody. I am getting too old to understand!"
"The poems, Robin. Do you make them yet?" "Oh yes! Now and then. All this helps.... And you, Glenfernie, I could make a poem of you!" The laird laughed. "I suppose you could of all men.... Gilian and you do not marry?" "We are not the marrying kind. But I shouldn't love beauty inside if I didn't love Gilian.... I see that something big has come to you, Glenfernie, and made itself at home.
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