If she permitted
her eye to glance farther into futurity, it
was but to anticipate that she must be for many a
day cold in the grave, with the coronach of her
tribe cried duly over her, before her fair-haired
Hamish could, according to her calculation, die
with his hand on the basket-hilt of the red claymore.
His father's hair was grey, ere, after a hundred
dangers, he had fallen with his arms in his
hands---That she should have seen and survived
the sight, was a natural consequence of the manners
of that age. And better it was---such was her
proud thought---that she had seen him so die, than
to have witnessed his departure from life in a smoky
hovel---on a bed of rotten straw, like an over-worn
hound, or a bullock which died of disease. But the
hour of her young, her brave Hamish, was yet far
distant. He must succeed---he must conquer, like
his father. And when he fell at length,---for she
anticipated for him no bloodless death,---Elspat
would ere then have lain long in the grave, and
could neither see his death-struggle, nor mourn
over his grave-sod.
With such wild notions working in her brain,
the spirit of Elspat rose to its usual pitch, or rather
to one which seemed higher.
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