''
``Mad woman, said you,'' replied I, hearing him
imperfectly; ``then she is perhaps dangerous?''
``No---she is not mad,'' replied Donald; ``for
then it may be she would be happier than she is;
though when she thinks on what she has done, and
caused to be done, rather than yield up a hair-breadth
of her ain wicked will, it is not likely she
can be very well settled. But she neither is mad
nor mischievous; and yet, my leddy, I think you
had best not go nearer to her.'' And then, in a few
hurried words, he made me acquainted with the
story which I am now to tell more in detail. I
heard the narrative with a mixture of horror and
sympathy, which at once impelled me to approach
the sufferer, and speak to her the words of comfort,
or rather of pity, and at the same time made
me afraid to do so.
This indeed was the feeling with which she was
regarded by the Highlanders in the neighbourhood,
who looked upon Elspat MacTavish, or the
Woman of the Tree, as they called her, as the
Greeks considered those who were pursued by the
Furies, and endured the mental torment consequent
on great criminal actions. They regarded
such unhappy beings as Orestes and
dipus, as
being less the voluntary perpetrators of their
crimes than as the passive instruments by which
the terrible decrees of Destiny had been accomplished;
and the fear with which they beheld them
was not unmingled with veneration.
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