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clouds； and the air was cold and penetrating。 Robert drew Eric's
plaid closer over his chest。 Eric thanked him lightly； but his
voice sounded eager； and it was with a long hasty stride that he
went up the hill through the gathering of the light frosty mist。 He
stopped at the stair upon which Robert had found him that memorable
night。 They went up。 The door had been left on the latch for their
entrance。 They went up more steps between rocky walls。 When in
after years he read the Purgatorio； as often as he came to one of
its ascents； Robert saw this stair with his inward eye。 At the top
of the stair was the garden； still ascending； and at the top of the
garden shone the glow of Mr。 Lindsay's parlour through the
red…curtained window。 To Robert it shone a refuge for Ericson from
the night air； to Ericson it shone the casket of the richest jewel
of the universe。 Well might the ruddy glow stream forth to meet
him！ Only in glowing red could such beauty be rightly closed。 With
trembling hand he knocked at the door。
They were shown at once into the parlour。 Mysie was putting away
her book as they entered； and her back was towards them。 When she
turned； it seemed even to Robert as if all the light in the room
came only from her eyes。 But that light had been all gathered out
of the novel she had just laid down。 She held out her hand to Eric；
and her sweet voice was yet more gentle than wont； for he had been
ill。 His face flushed at the tone。 But although she spoke kindly；
he could hardly have fancied that she showed him special favour。
Robert stood with his violin under his arm； feeling as awkward as if
he had never handled anything more delicate than a pitchfork。 But
Mysie sat down to the table； and began to pour out the tea； and he
came to himself again。 Presently her father entered。 His greeting
was warm and mild and sleepy。 He had come from poring over
Spotiswood； in search of some Will o' the wisp or other； and had
grown stupid from want of success。 But he revived after a cup of
tea； and began to talk about northern genealogies； and Ericson did
his best to listen。 Robert wondered at the knowledge he displayed：
he had been tutor the foregoing summer in one of the oldest and
poorest； and therefore proudest families in Caithness。 But all the
time his host talked Ericson's eyes hovered about Mysie； who sat
gazing before her with look distraught； with wide eyes and
scarce…moving eyelids； beholding something neither on sea or shore；
and Mr。 Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in some egregious
blunder； while Mysie would now and then start awake and ask Robert
or Ericson to take another cup of tea。 Before the sentence was
finished； however； she would let it die away； speaking the last
words mechanically； as her consciousness relapsed into dreamland。
Had not Robert been with Ericson； he would have found it wearisome
enough； and except things took a turn； Ericson could hardly be
satisfied with the pleasure of the evening。 Things did take a turn。
'Robert has brought his fiddle；' said Ericson； as the tea was
removed。
'I hope he will be kind enough to play something；' said Mr。 Lindsay。
'I'll do that；' answered Robert； with alacrity。 'But ye maunna
expec' ower muckle； for I'm but a prentice…han'；' he added； as he
got the instrument ready。
Before he had drawn the bow once across it； attention awoke in
Mysie's eyes； and before he had finished playing； Ericson must have
had quite as much of the 'beauty born of murmuring sound' as was
good for him。 Little did Mysie think of the sky of love； alive with
silent thoughts； that arched over her。 The earth teems with love
that is unloved。 The universe itself is one sea of infinite love；
from whose consort of harmonies if a stray note steal across the
sense； it starts bewildered。
Robert played better than usual。 His touch grew intense； and put on
all its delicacy； till it was like that of the spider； which； as
Pope so admirably says；
Feels at each thread； and lives along the line。
And while Ericson watched its shadows； the music must have taken
hold of him too； for when Robert ceased； he sang a wild ballad of
the northern sea； to a tune strange as itself。 It was the only time
Robert ever heard him sing。 Mysie's eyes grew wider and wider as
she listened。 When it was over；
'Did ye write that sang yersel'； Mr。 Ericson？' asked Robert。
'No；' answered Ericson。 'An old shepherd up in our parts used to say
it to me when I was a boy。'
'Didna he sing 't？' Robert questioned further。
'No； he didn't。 But I heard an old woman crooning it to a child in
a solitary cottage on the shore of Stroma； near the Swalchie
whirlpool； and that was the tune she sang it to； if singing it could
be called。'
'I don't quite understand it； Mr。 Ericson；' said Mysie。 'What does
it mean？'
'There was once a beautiful woman lived there…away；' began
Ericson。But I have not room to give the story as he told it；
embellishing it； no doubt； as with such a mere tale was lawful
enough； from his own imagination。 The substance was that a young
man fell in love with a beautiful witch； who let him go on loving
her till he cared for nothing but her； and then began to kill him by
laughing at him。 For no witch can fall in love herself； however
much she may like to be loved。 She mocked him till he drowned
himself in a pool on the seashore。 Now the witch did not know that；
but as she walked along the shore； looking for things； she saw his
hand lying over the edge of a rocky basin。 Nothing is more useful
to a witch than the hand of a man； so she went to pick it up。 When
she found it fast to an arm； she would have chopped it off； but
seeing whose it was； she would； for some reason or other best known
to a witch； draw off his ring first。 For it was an enchanted ring
which she had given him to bewitch his love； and now she wanted both
it and the hand to draw to herself the lover of a young maiden whom
she hated。 But the dead hand closed its fingers upon hers； and her
power was powerless against the dead。 And the tide came rushing up；
and the dead hand held her till she was drowned。 She lies with her
lover to this day at the bottom of the Swalchie whirlpool； and when
a storm is at hand； strange moanings rise from the pool； for the
youth is praying the witch lady for her love； and she is praying him
to let go her hand。
While Ericson told the story the room still glimmered about Robert
as if all its light came from Mysie's face； upon which the
flickering firelight alone played。 Mr。 Lindsay sat a little back
from the rest； with an amused expression： legends of such sort did
not come within the scope of his antiquarian reach； though he was
ready enough to believe whatever tempted his own taste； let it be as
destitute of likelihood as the story of the dead hand。 When Ericson
ceased； Mysie gave a deep sigh； and looked full of thought； though I
daresay it was only feeling。 Mr。 Lindsay followed with an old tale
of the Sinclairs； of which he said Ericson's reminded him； though
the sole association was that the foregoing was a Caithness story；
and the Sinclairs are a Caithness family。 As soon as it was over；
Mysie； who could not hide all her impatience during its lingering
progress； asked Robert to play again。 He took up his violin； and
with great expression gave the air of Ericson's ballad two or three
times over； and then laid down the instrument。 He saw indeed that
it was too much for Mysie； affecting her more； thus presented after
the story； than the singing of the ballad itself。 Thereupon
Ericson； whose spirits had risen greatly at finding that he could
himself secure Mysie's attention； and produce the play of soul in
feature which he so much delighted to watch； offered another story；
and the distant rush of the sea； borne occasionally into the
'grateful gloom' upon the cold sweep of a February wind； mingled
with one tale after another； with which he entranced two of his
audience； while the third listened mildly content。
The last of the tales Ericson told was as follows：
'One evening…twilight in spring； a young English student； who had
wandered northwards as far as the outlying fragments of Scotland
called the Orkney and Shetland islands； found himself on a small
island of the latter group； caught in a storm of wind and hail；
which had come on suddenly。 It was in vain to look about for any
shelter； for not only did the storm entirely obscure the landscape；
but there was nothing around him save a desert moss。
'At length； however； as he walked on for mere walking's sake； he
found himself on the verge of a cliff； and saw； over the brow of it；
a few feet below him； a ledge of rock； where he might find some
shelter from the blast； which blew from behind。 Letting himself
down by his hands； he alighted upon something that crunched benea