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And fancy the risks of rheumatism! You told me one of Gillesbeg Aotram's stories here; what was it again?" He repeated the tale of the King of Knapdale's Daughter. She listened attentively, sometimes amused at his earnestness, that sat on him gaukily, sometimes serious enough, touched with the poetry he could put into the narrative.
Just think o' Sim gettin' the dirty gae-bye frae a glaikit lassie hauf his age; and no' his equal in the three parishes, wi' a leg to tak' the ee o' a hal dancin'-school, and auld Knapdale's money comin' till him whenever Knapdale's gane, and I'm hearin' he's in the deid-thraws already. Ill fa' the day fotch the Frenchy!
But this is not the place for soldier stories; every place has its own kind of story, and this is the place for fairy stories if you care for them." "I like them well enough," she answered dubiously, "though I like better the stories where people are doing things." They rose from their seat of illusion beside the Linn where the King of Knapdale's daughter broke the gate of sleep and dream.
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