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Glossin, it must be remarked, was, during the following dialogue, on the one hand eager to learn what local recollections young Bertram had retained of the scenes of his infancy, and, on the other, compelled to be extremely cautious in his replies, lest he should awaken or assist, by some name, phrase, or anecdote, the slumbering train of association. He suffered, indeed, during the whole scene, the agonies which he so richly deserved; yet his pride and interest, like the fortitude of a North American Indian, manned him to sustain the tortures inflicted at once by the contending stings of a guilty conscience, of hatred, of fear, and of suspicion.
“I wish to ask the name, sir,” said Bertram, “of the family to whom this stately ruin belongs ?"
“ It is my property, sir-my name is Glossin.”
“Glossin ?-Glossin?” repeated Bertram, as if the answer were somewhat different from what he expected ; “I beg your pardon, Mr. Glossin ; I am apt to be very absent. May I ask if the castle has been long in your family ?"
“It was built, I believe, long ago, by a family called Mac-Dingawaie,” answered Glossin; suppressing for obvious reasons the more familiar sound of Bertram, which might have awakened the recollections which he was anxious to lull to rest, and slurring with an evasive answer the question concerning the endurance of his own possession.
“And how do you read the half-defaced motto, sir," said Bertran, “which is upon that scroll above the entablature with the arms ?”
“I-I-I really do not exactly know,” replied Glossin.
“I should be apt to make it out, Our Right makes our Might.”
“I believe it is something of that kind,” said Glossin.
“May I ask, sir,” said the stranger, “if it is your family motto ?”
“N-n-no-no-not ours. That is, I believe, the motto of the former people--mine is—mine is—in fact I have had some correspondence with Mr. Cumming of the Lyon Office in Edinburgh about mine. He writes me the Glossins anciently bore for a motto, 'He who takes it, makes it.'”
“If there be any uncertainty, sir, and the case were mine,” said Bertram, “I would assume the old motto, which seems to me the better of the two."
Glossin, whose tongue by this time clove to the roof of his mouth, only answered by a nod.
“It is odd enough,” said Bertram, fixing his eye upon the arms and gateway, and partly addressing Glossin, partly as it were thinking aloud—“it is odd the tricks which our memory plays us. The remnants of an old prophecy, or song, or rhyme, of some kind or other, return to my recollection on hearing that mottostay—it is a strange jingle of sounds :
The dark shall be light,
I cannot remember the last line-on some particular
height-height is the rhyme, I am sure ; but I cannot hit upon the preceding word.”
“Confound your memory,” muttered Glossin, "you remember by far too much of it !”
“There are other rhymes connected with these early recollections,” continued the young man : “Pray, sir, is there any song current in this part of the world respecting a daughter of the King of the Isle of Man eloping with a Scottish knight ?" “I am the worst person in the world to consult
upon legendary antiquities," answered Glossin.
“I could sing such a ballad,” said Bertram, one end to another, when I was a boy. You must know I left Scotland, which is my native country, very young, and those who brought me up discouraged all my attempts to preserve recollection of my native land, on account, I believe, of a boyish wish which I had to escape from their charge.”
“Very natural,” said Glossin, but speaking as if his utmost efforts were unable to unseal his lips beyond the width of a quarter of an inch, so that his whole utterance was a kind of compressed muttering, very different from the round, bold, bullying voice with which he usually spoke. Indeed his appearance and demeanour during all this conversation seemed to diminish even his strength and stature; so that he appeared to wither into the shadow of himself, now advancing one foot, now the other, now stooping and wriggling his shoulders, now fumbling with the buttons of his waistcoat, now clasping his hands together,-in short, he was the