There
were females in the hut who were swathing the
corpse in its bloody plaid before carrying it from
the fatal spot. ``Women,'' she said, starting up
and interrupting their chant at once and their labour---
``Tell me, women, why sing you the dirge
of MacDhonuil Dhu in the house of MacTavish
Mhor?''
``She-wolf, be silent with thine ill-omened yell,''
answered one of the females, a relation of the deceased,
``and let us do our duty to our beloved
kinsman! There shall never be coronach cried, or
dirge played, for thee or thy bloody wolf-burd.*
* Wolf-brood, _i. e_. wolf-cub.
The ravens shall eat him from the gibbet, and the
foxes and wild-cats shall tear thy corpse upon the
hill. Cursed be he that would sain your bones,
or add a stone to your cairn!''
``Daughter of a foolish mother,'' answered the
widow of MacTavish Mhor, ``know that the gibbet
with which you threaten us, is no portion of our
inheritance. For thirty years the Black Tree of
the Law, whose apples are dead men's bodies, hungered
after the beloved husband of my heart; but
be died like a brave man, with the sword in his
hand, and defrauded it of its hopes and its fruit.''
``So shall it not be with thy child, bloody sorceress,''
replied the female mourner, whose passions
were as violent as those of Elspat herself.
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