"I never heard tell of that," said I.

"It is rather singular how little you are acquainted with," said she.
"One part may call themselves Grant, and one Macgregor, but they are
still of the same clan. They are all the sons of Alpin, from whom, I
think, our country has its name."

"What country is that?" I asked.

"My country and yours," said she.

"This is my day for discoveries, I think," said I, "for I always thought
the name of it was Scotland."

"Scotland is the name of what you call Ireland," she replied. "But the
old ancient true name of this place that we have our foot-soles on, and
that our bones are made of, will be Alban. It was Alban they called it
when our forefathers will be fighting for it against Rome and Alexander;
and it is called so still in your own tongue that you forget."

"Troth," said I, "and that I never learned!" For I lacked heart to take
her up about the Macedonian.

"But your fathers and mothers talked it, one generation with another,"
said she. "And it was sung about the cradles before you or me were ever
dreamed of; and your name remembers it still. Ah, if you could talk that
language you would find me another girl. The heart speaks in that
tongue."