For it was an enchanted ring
which she had given him to bewitch his love, and now she wanted both
it and the hand to draw to herself the lover of a young maiden whom
she hated. But the dead hand closed its fingers upon hers, and her
power was powerless against the dead. And the tide came rushing up,
and the dead hand held her till she was drowned. She lies with her
lover to this day at the bottom of the Swalchie whirlpool; and when
a storm is at hand, strange moanings rise from the pool, for the
youth is praying the witch lady for her love, and she is praying him
to let go her hand.
While Ericson told the story the room still glimmered about Robert
as if all its light came from Mysie's face, upon which the
flickering firelight alone played. Mr. Lindsay sat a little back
from the rest, with an amused expression: legends of such sort did
not come within the scope of his antiquarian reach, though he was
ready enough to believe whatever tempted his own taste, let it be as
destitute of likelihood as the story of the dead hand. When Ericson
ceased, Mysie gave a deep sigh, and looked full of thought, though I
daresay it was only feeling. Mr. Lindsay followed with an old tale
of the Sinclairs, of which he said Ericson's reminded him, though
the sole association was that the foregoing was a Caithness story,
and the Sinclairs are a Caithness family. As soon as it was over,
Mysie, who could not hide all her impatience during its lingering
progress, asked Robert to play again.
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