Glossin, it must be remarked, was, during the following dialogue, an the one hand eager to learn what local recollections young Bertram had retained of the scenes of his infancy, and, on the other, compelled to be extremely cautious in his replies, lest he should awaken or assist, by some name, phrase, or anecdote, the slumbering train of association. He suffered, indeed, during the whole scene, the agonies which he so richly, deserved; yet his pride and interest, like the fortitude of a North American Indian, manned him to sustain the tortures inflicted at once by the contending stings of a guilty conscience, of hatred, of fear, and of suspicion.
"I wish to ask the name, sir," said Bertram, "of the family to whom this stately ruin belongs?"
It is my property, sir; my name is Glossin."
"Glossin--Glossin?" repeated Bertram, as if the answer were somewhat different from what he expected : "I beg your pardon, Mr. Glossin; I am apt to be very absent.--May I ask if the castle has been long in your family?"
"It was built, I believe, long ago, by a family called MacDingawaie," answered Glossin; suppressing for obvious reasons the more familiar sound of Bertram, which might have awakened the recollections which he was anxious to lull to rest, and slurring with an evasive answer the question concerning the endurance of his own possession.
"And how do you read the half-defaced motto, sir," said Bertram, "which is upon that scroll above the entablature with the arms?"
"I--I--I really do not exactly know," replied Glossin.
"I should be apt to make it out, 'Our Right makes our Might.' "