We carried her homeward, making strangely enough for some distance but one procession with the bodies which were going to be buried without the wall, while the heads were taken to be set on the pikes of the Nether Bow.
To the Earl John's own lodging we brought her, and in a room with a wide north-looking window we laid her down on a bed. Then we stood silently about her, Nell and I being nearest.
In a little while Marjorie turned her head to the window. The sun had risen on the sea. A north wind was blowing. All was very blue, and smacked of the morning freshness, for the window was open, and the sea air blew off the firth almost as salt it was wont to blow in at the windows of Culzean.
Thrice she moved her lips to speak, but till the fourth time no word came.
'I have done the work appointed,' she said, 'I ken not if I have done it right.'
She paused a little, and her eyes, as she looked at the sea, were very wide and wistful.
'It is a hard saying that "Vengeance is His." I thought it would be sweet—sweet,' she said, 'but now in the mouth it is bitter.'
'Hush thee, Marjorie,' whispered my Nell; 'it was the justice of God upon the murderers of our father.'
And I thought that she spoke well.
But Marjorie waved her aside.
'Like enough,' she answered, quietly, as one that has not strength to argue, but yet holds the contrary opinion. 'Done, at least, is Marjorie's task. I journey forth to take my wages. Fare you well.'
She turned her face a little outward so that she could look upon the sea and the Fife Lomonds.
'A dearer shore,' she said, softly, and then she started a little, quickly as if she had waked from sleep.
'Where am I?' she asked.
But ere we could answer—even Nell, who stood close beside her and stroked her brow with a soft hand, she went on,—
'Oh, what am I saying? I was thinking on our garden at Culzean, with its rose walks and the sweet dreaming scent of the sea?'
She looked up at me, as it had been almost archly, yet so as almost to break my heart.
'Launcelot, lad,' she said, 'hast thou thy gage that I gave thee there? Ye thought me once to be sweet. And I liked you, laddie, I liked you—with something just an inch on the hither side of loving. But now Nelly will love thee a mile on the further side. Come you, Nell,' she said, beckoning her, 'brave, sweet sister! Let not thy sharp tongue longer injure thy warm heart. Give me your hand, little sister Nelly. Where is it? I cannot see—for the bright shining light.'
And finding Nell's hand she put it into mine across the bed.
'Good-night, bairns,' she said, 'even so keep them till the world ends!'
Then for a short space she was silent, and when she spoke again it was very low, so that none save Nell and I could hear. But the words made us tingle as we caught them.
'Gilbert,' she was saying in a whisper, clear and distinct, 'is it not sweet to walk thus hand in hand on the green meadows? Are not the spring flowers sweet, lad of my love? Shall I sing thee a song about them? For, though thou know'st it not, I can sing both high and low.'
Then she spoke as it had been liltingly and gladsomely.
'Gilbert, let me set this spray of the bonny birk above thine heart. Methinks it hath a strange look. I kenned not that it grew in this countryside.'
She broke into a weird lilt of song that sent the tears hasting to our eyes. But Marjorie was smiling as she never smiled on me, and that made me weep the more.
'It neither grew in syke nor ditch Nor yet in any sheuch, But at the gates o' Paradise, That birk grew fair eneuch.'
'Gilbert, Gilbert,' she said lovingly, crooning like one that is caressed, 'is not this right winsome? That we are walking here together on the living green—with all our fashes, all our troubles left quite behind us. There was surely something long ago that wearied us, something that parted us and twained us. I cannot mind what it was. I shall not try to remember. But, love of mine, it shall separate us no more for ever and ever!'
Her voice had almost gone. But once again it came louder.
'Keep my hand, Gilbert,' she said, trembling a little, 'there is a mist coming up over the green betwixt me and the sunshine—a cold, cold mist from the sea. But keep thou my hand, dear love, clasp it tighter, and it will pass over.'
I saw the death sweat break on her brow.
'Gilbert, Gilbert,' she whispered, searching above her with her hands and opening her arms, 'clasp me closer. I cannot see thee, love, for the mist. I cannot feel your hand.'
I bent my ear. I thought she was gone from us. But, as from an infinite distance I heard the words come to me. They were the last, spoken with great relief.
'The mist has gone by, dear love! The mist has quite gone by!'
And she lay still, smiling most sweetly.