"His name, my lord, was Lulach, and he was the son of Roderic MacAlpin
and Sigrid the Fair."
"You lie, vile witch, you lie!" cried Roderic, recoiling as he heard her
words, and pressing his hands to his brow.
"Not so," said Elspeth, "the youth you then slew was indeed your own son."
"God forgive me!" murmured Roderic, sinking to his seat and burying his
shaggy head in his hands. "Oh, Lulach, Lulach! my son, my son!"
"Well may you weep, my lord; but methinks your punishment is full well
deserved. Better had you obeyed our good abbot, and gone upon the holy
pilgrimage; better still had you remained content upon your isle of
Gigha, and never sought, in your ambition, to wrest from your brother
Hamish the larger inheritance that you coveted. But you slew our good
Earl Hamish; you slew his son Alpin. Blame now yourself alone in that
your folly led you to slay also your own son Lulach. 'Twas an evil game
you played, my lord, and your punishment is just."
"Taunt me no more," said Roderic sullenly. "Taunt me no more. But tell
me, if it indeed be that my boy is dead -- my dear son Lulach, whom I
might have loved all these years had I but known he could be found --
tell me, when came he into Bute?"
"Long years ago, my lord, when he was but a child, and at the time when
you were roving the seas in pursuit of Rapp the Icelander.
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