``Undoubtedly,''
thought the clergyman, ``this mountain
rivulet, suddenly swelled by a water-spout, or
thunder-storm, has often been the cause of those
accidents, which, happening in the glen called by
her name, have been ascribed to the agency of the
Cloght-dearg.''
Just as this idea crossed his mind, he heard a
female voice exclaim, in a wild and thrilling accent,
``Michael Tyrie---Michael Tyrie!'' He looked
round in astonishment, and not without some fear.
It seemed for an instant, as if the Evil Being, whose
existence he had disowned, was about to appear for
the punishment of his incredulity. This alarm did
not hold him more than an instant, nor did it prevent
his replying in a firm voice, ``Who calls---
and where are you?''
``One who journeys in wretchedness, between
life and death,'' answered the voice; and the speaker,
a tall female, appeared from among the fragments
of rocks which had concealed her from view.
As she approached more closely, her mantle of
bright tartan, in which the red colour much predominated,
her stature, the long stride with which
she advanced, and the writhen features and wild
eyes which were visible from under her curch, would
have made her no inadequate representative of the
spirit which gave name to the valley.
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