With the sweet sad smile of the young matron in some fragrant old-fashioned tale of the knightly days of yore, Carrie left the Yellow Drawing-room.

Mrs MacDonald had been right. The Reverend Ninian Fletcher was in the tower-room, reading in a grandfather’s chair beside a glowing peat fire.

“Ah, Mrs Royde, this is a welcome and unexpected visit.”

“I came up here, Mr Fletcher, because I thought I might see something down in the glen.”

“Let me pull the curtains,” the chaplain suggested.

They stood for awhile gazing out upon the moonlit scene, but there was no sign of so much as a lantern. Carrie asked the chaplain if he would mind the night-air from an open casement, and receiving his assurance that he slept every night with his window wide open she leaned out and listened.

“What was that?” she asked when a melancholy hoot was heard. “Isn’t that Chester’s voice calling for help?”

But Mr Fletcher assured her it was an owl, and a moment later the great white bird itself swept past the casement on silent wings.

“Goody, that scared me,” Carrie exclaimed, and she hastily shut the casement. “It was like a ghost.”

“They are uncanny birds,” the chaplain agreed. “Better come and sit by the fire. I’m sure we shall soon be getting news of your husband.”

“I hope so, Mr Fletcher. But of course you yourself had a nasty experience with those hikers, didn’t you?”

“It was rather unpleasant, but at any rate Mr Royde is not in Mac ’ic Eachainn’s Cradle.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because the door is still off its hinges, and from what I know of this part of the world likely to remain off its hinges for a long, long time to come. Doors that are broken in the West Highlands don’t get mended so quickly as all that,” the old chaplain chuckled.

“Mr Fletcher, I wish you’d read me some more of your poetry. I think there’s nothing so soothing as poetry when one’s feeling anxious the way I’m feeling about my poor husband right now. I do wish we could have some news of him.”

The chaplain went to the bookcase and came back with Echoes of Glenbogle. Turning over the pages, he chose a poem and began to read it, explaining that the verses were spoken alternately by a daughter and her mother:

“‘O where is my Ronald, my bonny young Ronald,

O where have they hidden my Ronald so true?

’Tis a week since he bade me farewell in the gleaming,

A week since he kissed me a tender adieu.’

“‘Oh, ask not, sweet Flora, where Ronald is hidden,

’Tis better the tidings thou never should’st hear,

Thy Ronald slain foully by one of Clan Chattan,

Fares home to Glenbogle this morn on his bier.’

“‘My Ronald slain foully by one of Clan Chattan?