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Part Thirteenth.

In the dead hour o' nicht I was wakened by a maist terrific crash—I couldna tell o' what; but frae afar off there came a dull, ominous, boomin' sound, such as I hae often heard sin-syne, when the sea, fleein' afore the wind, comes loupin' like a mad beast at the land. I laid and listened till it for a time, wi' a sort o' dumb curiosity. But suddenly a confused tumult arose in the house. Maids an' men ran up an' down the stairs and passages, shouting and ca in on ane anither; lichts flitted aboot; there was shuttin' and slammin' o’ doors within; and frae below men knockit at the outer doors; and a cry went up, “The spate! the spate!“—and aboon a', a hoarse sullen roar, like the voice o' approaching doom. Somebody—I kent it was my faither after—brak intil my chamber, and hastily happin' me in some wraps, took me up bodily and awa' wi’ me out intil the open, never resting till he had pit me safe on the knowe where the byre stood. “Get ye in tae the byre, Jenny,” quo he, “and bide there as ye care for your life.” And wi' the word he sped awa' again intil the black nicht.

Ane after anither the folk frae the house came up to the knowe, and one o' the first, ye may be sure, was Dunean Macbuist, trem'lin’ an' chitterin’ wi' evendoun fricht.—“Are we safe here, Miss Janet.“—he stammer'd out. “Do ye think we are quite out o' reach o' the flood?”

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I pitied the puir mannikin, an' bade him gae an' hide himsel amang the kye in the byre, as he wasna owre weel clad for lassie's company; an' he just thankit me an' got himsel out o' my sicht. Thocht I, it will no be a compliment to the kye's discernin' if they dinna take him for a calf.

As I stood in the door, I saw through the mirk a white wall o' water come tum'mlin’ bodily doun the glen, roarin' like a hungry creature seekin' its prey. It was in sic grand volume, that its borders amaist reached me where I was standin'; and I kent weel that nae livin' thing could bide the brunt o't and live. By this time maist a' the folk had gathered round the byre, ready to flee intil the hill-taps if the spate raise ony higher. Some o' the men had spunks, and under the lee o' the auld walls my faither an' Mr. Renwick went round to see if a' were safe. “Madam's no here,” cried they, baith in ae breath. “She's no awa frae the house.”

A death-like chill took hold o' us as the words rang out aboon the awfu' din o' the torrent, an' for a moment we were a' dumb-stricken wi' fear. Then out o' the gloom strode a man. He spak' no a word tae ony, but went straight doun the face o' the knowe intil the very thick o' the seethin' waters. A ery rase frae the men, an' a shriek frae the women—“Colin, Colin!—come ye back, Colin. It's sure death ye're gaun tae.”

Aye, it was my Colin who had gane to succour the auld leddy, or dee in the doin' o't. My faither ordered me intil the byre, an' sought to lead me awa; but no a foot wad I stir. I was deaf to a' entreaties, I kent page 69 one thing only;—Colin, my ain leal Colin, had gone on that rash venture, an' I wadna be moved frae the spot where I stood till I kent what came o't. In my anger I turned on the men around, an' denounced them, ane an' a', as cowards that didna daur gae till his assistance; but they paid sma' heed to my flytin.’ Silent an' fearfu’ we a' stood an' watched. An' the waters roared an' the winds raved, in maist dismal concert thegither.

There was a whisper an' a stir amang us when the mair keen-sichted ca'd out that something was movin' in the strath, awa to the right, where the ground was higher than at the burnside. Spunks were lichted and dry sheaves brought frae the sheds in the byre, an' set on fire for a beacon to guide his steps, for it was Colin nae dout. Nearer an' nearer he came. By the licht o' the lowe I watched him climbin' wi’ difficulty up the steep bank. Then the haill body o' men ran forrit to aid and greet him. Mair straw was piled on the bleeze, an' sune—a’ wet an' reekin', but wi' the proud licht o' triumph shining on his face an' sparklin’ frae his een—he set down Madam Cranston in our midst, seaithless an' weel, elad in a' her silks an' lace, an' carryin’ her cane, just for a' the warld as if she had arrived on a visit. In my great joy I fairly cast a' restraint to the winds, and casting mysel' intil Colin's arms, I kissed him again an' again in sicht o' them a'. And the warm-hearted laddies round gave cheer upon cheer for “the brave man and his fond lassie.”

It seems that when a' the lave were skelpin' aboot in fricht at the first hint o' danger, the auld lady had quietly dressed hersel', no' forgetting a pin or a tie page 70 By the time she was fully clad a' the folk were awa', an' the waters had risen four feet or mair inside the house. Sae she lichted a' the candles she could find in the chambers, an' placin’ them at the window she sat hersel' doun at the bedside, calmly waiting, she said, “Till it pleased Ane aboon to send deliver-ance.” Colin laughed when he tauld how she looked sae grand an' stately, sittin' there her lane in the midst o' desolation, that he actually asked her pardon for intrudin'. He couldna' help it, he said. Madam got up very quietly, an'—“Sae ye're come for the auld body at last,” quo she. “Ye'll hae to carry me, I'm thinkin', for the water's owre deep, an' I dinna' care to be droukit. An' min’ ye dinna tousel my claes.’ Sae, happin' her in his maud, he bare her through the flood safe an' dry as if she had rode in a covered coach A' she said till him when he set her doun was—”Thank ye, laddie.” An', shakin' oot her claes an' bobbin’ a curtsey a' round—“Gude e'en, gude folk!” quo she. “It's a saft nicht! Ye needna hae gane till the cost o' an illumination on my account. I'm no that proud; but it was weel meant, an' I thank ye for't.”

The way Colin gat till her was by his weel kenning the lie o' the land, combined wi' muckle coolness an' presence o' mind. Keepin' aye on the edge o' the waters he crossed the Birkburn, that ye'll mind ran doun abint the house. The far bank bein' some higher than the ground on the upper side, turned aside the warst o' the flood, an' made still water ahint. Colin easily waded through this, an' winnin’ in at the page 71 back door, the lichted candles guided him to Madam's room.

That nicht we a' lay in the byre—Madam an' I in the sma' chamber owre the door and the rest in the sheds, frae which the puir beasties were turned out to find their ain shelter. Next mornin' we found the maist o' them huddled thegither aboot Craigielinn House, an' some were in the spence itsel'. And sae the second pairt o' the auld witch's prophecy was fulfilled.