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The Highland monthly - National Library of Scotland

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<strong>The</strong> <strong>Highland</strong> Monthly.<br />

governed by reason ; the whole countenance was expec-<br />

tant and purposeful.<br />

" Quick !" she whispered.<br />

<strong>The</strong> chamber was lit by two rush-lights, so placed that<br />

the features <strong>of</strong> Flora were visible from the doorway in their<br />

deathly repose. For a brief second Elspeth gazed upon<br />

the solemn scene.<br />

" How like it," she whispered.<br />

" Like what ?"<br />

" Her ghaist !" was Elspeth's reply, as she seized the<br />

lantern and rushed towards the bed. She held the light<br />

close to the face, and with the other hand raised an eye-<br />

lid, her expression meanwhile betokening intense anxiety.<br />

It changed to one <strong>of</strong> satisfaction as she perceived that the<br />

eye-lid slowly closed <strong>of</strong> its own accord. <strong>The</strong>n she thrust a<br />

pin into one <strong>of</strong> the veins <strong>of</strong> the wrist, rubbed the part<br />

vigorously, and watched the result. A small speck <strong>of</strong><br />

blood appeared on the surface !<br />

" Leave the room," she said, turning to David and<br />

pointing her finger sternly doorwards. '' Nane but Elspeth<br />

kens the cure, an' nae e'en but hers on this earth will ever<br />

see hoo it works."<br />

Without waiting to see whether David complied,<br />

Elspeth turned and snatched the head cloth from the body.<br />

David at once sprang forward with a cry <strong>of</strong> dismay and<br />

protest, seized the old woman by the shoulders, and hurled<br />

her to the floor.<br />

'• Do you mean to insult the dead with your mad<br />

pranks," he demanded fiercely, " begone this instant or I'll<br />

kick you to the door."<br />

<strong>The</strong> Witch rose slowly, uttering a whine as <strong>of</strong> dispair ;<br />

then she fixed her eyes upon her assailant with a look<br />

which implied unuttered curses, long and deep.<br />

" It's ye that are mad !— She's no dead yet, d'ye hear ?<br />

She's no dead yet ; but she'll be dead afore mornin' ; aye,<br />

as dead as the wutch hersel'. An' listen : you'll be her<br />

murderer" she hissed. " Ye think me mad ; at times I

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