He sat in a corner of the curious, dimly-lit and
old-fashioned chamber, and, lying back in the chair, abandoned himself
to dreams as Sheila sang the mystic songs of the northern coasts.
There was something strangely suggestive of the sea in the room
itself, and all her songs were of the sea. It was a smaller room than
the large apartment in which they had dined, and it was filled with
curiosities from distant shores and with the strange captures made by
the Borva fishermen. Everywhere, too, were the trophies of Mackenzie's
skill with rod and rifle. Deer's horns, seal skins, stuffed birds,
salmon in glass cases, masses of coral, enormous shells and a thousand
similar things made the little drawing-room a sort of grotto; but it
was a grotto within hearing of the sound of the sea, and there was no
musty atmosphere in a room that was open all day to the cold winds of
the Atlantic.
With a smoking tumbler of whisky and water before him, the King of
Borva sat at the table, poring over a large volume containing plans
for bridges. Ingram was seated at the piano, in continual consultation
with Sheila about her songs. Lavender, in this dusky corner, lay and
listened, with all sorts of fancies crowding in upon him as Sheila
sang of the sad and wild legends of her home. Was it by chance, then,
he asked himself, that these songs seemed so frequently to be the
lamentation of a Highland girl for a fair-haired lover beyond the sea?
First of all she sang the "Wail of Dunevegan," and how strangely her
voice thrilled with the sadness of the song!--
Morn, oh mantle thy smiles of gladness!
Night, oh come with thy clouds of sadness!
Earth, thy pleasures to me seem madness!
Macleod, my leal love, since thou art gone.
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