Kitabı oku: «The Lost Pibroch, and other Sheiling Stories», sayfa 9

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Without warning the door of the room opened, and a man took one step in, soft, without noise, white-faced, and expecting no less than he found, by the look in his eyes. It was the goodwife’s husband, still with the mud on his shoes and the sword on his belt. He beckoned on the fellow at the window, and went before him (the company still in their sleep), making for the big door, and George Mor as he followed lifted a sword from a pin.

Close by Adventurer the two men stopped. It was on a level round of old moss, damp but springy, hid from the house by some saugh-trees.

The master of the house spoke first. Said he, “It’s no great surprise; they told me at the ferry over-by that strange carry-on and George Mor were keeping up the wife’s heart in Castle Dark.”

“She’s as honest a wife as ever – ”

“Fairly, fairly, I’ll allow – when the wind’s in that airt. It’s been a dull place this for her, and I have small skill of entertainment; but, man, I thought of her often, away in the camp!”

He was taking off his jacket as he spoke, and looking past George Mor’s shoulder and in between the trees at the loch. And now the day was fairly on the country.

“A bit foolish is your wife – just a girl, I’m not denying; but true at the core.”

“Young, young, as ye say, man! She’ll make, maybe, all the more taking a widow woman. She’ll need looks and gaiety indeed, for my poor cause is lost for good and all.”

“We saved the castle for you, at any rate. But for my friends in-by and myself the flambeau was at the root o’t.”

“So, my hero? In another key I might be having a glass with you over such friendship, but the day spreads and here’s our business before us.”

“I’ve small stomach for this. It’s a fool’s quarrel.”

“Thoir an aire!– Guard, George Mor!”

They fought warmly on the mossy grass, and the tinkle of the thin blades set the birds chirping in the bushes, but it could not be that that wakened my lady dovering in her chair in the room of guttering candles.

She started up in a dream, and found George Mor gone, and the mark of muddy brogues near the door fitted in with her dream. She wakened none of her drugged company, but hurried to the garden and in between the foreign trees to the summons of the playing swords.

“Stop, stop, husband!” she cried before she saw who was at the fighting; but only George Mor heard, and he half turned his head.

She was a little late. Her man, with a forefinger, was feeling the way to the scabbard, and a gout of blood was gathering at the point of his sword, when she got through the trees.

“Madame,” said he, cool enough but short in the breath, and bloody a little at the mouth, “here’s your gallant. He had maybe skill at diversion, but I’ve seen better at the small-sword. To-night my un-friends are coming back to harry Castle Dark, and I’m in little humour to stop them. Fare ye weel!”

A blash of rain threshed in Adventurer’s face; the tide crept at his feet, the fall of the oars on Barge Blue sank low and travelled far off. It was the broad day. Over above the river, Castle Dark grew black, but the fellow of my story could not see it.

“And the woman, Paruig Dali? What came of the woman?”

Another peat on the fire, little one. So! That the fellow of my story would need another trip to see. But Barge Blue is the ferry for all, high tide or low, in the calm and in the storm.

A GAELIC GLOSSARY

A bhean! O wife!

A pheasain! O brat!

Amadant fool. Amadaitt dhoill! O blind fool!

Bas, the haft of a shinty in this case.

Bàs, death. Bàs Dhiarmaid, death to Diarmaid! Beannachd, blessing. Beannachdlets! blessing with him!

Beannachd leat! blessing with thee, farewell! Biodag, a dirk.

Btrlinn ghorm, blue barge.

Bochdan, a ghost.

Bodach, an old man.

Bord-dubh, black-board, the game of draughts.

Bratach, a banner.

Cabar, a rafter, a log of wood for throwing in Highland sports.

Caileag bkeag, a little girl.

Cailleach, old woman. Cailleachan, old women.

Camatty, club used in the game of shinty. Camanachd, the game of shinty.

Cas, foot. Cas-chrom, a primitive hand-plough. Choillich-dhuibh, O black-cock!

Clach-cuid-fear, a lifting-stone for testing a man’s strength.

Clackneart, putting-stone.

Clarsack, harp.

Cothrom na Feinne, the fair-play of Finne; man to man. Crioslach, belt, girdle.

Cromag, a shepherd’s crook.

Crotal, lichen.

Crunluadh, a movement in piping. Crunluadh breabach, a smarter movement Crunluadh mack, the quickest part of a piobaireachd.

Dhé! O God! Dia, God. Dhia gleidh sinn! God keep us!

Dorlach, a knapsack.

Duitn’-nasal, gentleman.

Eas, waterfall or cataract.

Faoiltcach, the short season of stormy days at the end of January.

Feadan, the chanter or pipe on which pipers practise tunes before playing them on the bagpipes. Fuarag, hasty-pudding, a mixture of oatmeal and cold water, or oatmeal and milk or cream.

Gruagach, a sea-maiden in this case.

‘Ille! lad! ‘Illean! lads!

Iolair, eagle lorram, a boat-song.

Laochain! hero! comrade!

Larach, site of a ruined building.

Londubh, blackbird.

Mallachd ort! malediction on thee!

Marag-dkubh, a black pudding, made with blood and suet.

M’ eudail, my darling, my treasure.

Mhoire Mkathair, an ave, “Mary Mother.”

Mo chridhe! my heart!

Mo thruaigh! alas, my trouble!

Och! ochan! ochanoch! ochanie! ochanorie! exclamations of sorrow, alas! Och a Dhé! siod e nis! Eirich, eirich, Rob – O God! yonder it is now! Rise, rise, Rob!

Oinseach, a female fool.

Piobaireachd, the symphony of bagpipe music, usually a lament, salute, or gathering Piob-mhor, the great Highland bagpipe.

Seangan, an ant.

Sgalag, a male farm-servant.

Sgeul, a tale, narrative.

Sgiati-dubh, black knife, worn in the Highlander’s stocking.

Sgireachd, parish.

Siod e! there it is!

Siubhal, allegro of the piobaireachd music.

Slochd-a-chubair gu bragh! the rallying cry of the old Inneraora burghers, “Slochd-a-chubair for ever!”

So! here! So agad e! here he is!

Spàgachd, club-footed, awkward at walking.