Alexander, by the fire, stooped to put back a coal that had fallen upon the oak boards, then sank again into his reverie.  Strickland read a paragraph without any especial comprehension, after which he found himself again by the stream of Alexander’s life.  That friendship with Ian Rullock utterly held, he believed.  Well, Ian Rullock, too, seemed somehow a great personage.  Very different from Alexander, and yet somehow large to match....  Where had Alexander been after Edinburgh—­where had he not been?  Very often Ian was with him, but sometimes and for months he would seem to have been alone.  Glenfernie might receive letters from Germany, from Italy or Egypt, or from further yet to the east.  He had been alone this year, for Ian was now the King’s man and with his regiment, Strickland supposed, wherever that might be.  Alexander had written from Buda-Pesth, from Erfurt, from Amsterdam, from London.  Now he sat here at Glenfernie, looking into the fire.  Strickland, who liked books of travel, wondered what he saw of old cities, grave or gay, of ruined temples, sphinxes, monuments, grass-grown battle-fields, and ships at sea, storied lands, peoples, individual men and women.  He had wayfared long; he must have had many an adventure.  He had been from childhood a learner.  His touch upon a book spoke of adeptship in that world....  Well, here he was, and what would he do now, when he was laird?  Strickland lost himself in speculation.  Little or naught had ever been in Alexander’s letters about women.

The white ash fell, the clock ticked, the wind went around the house with a faint, banshee crying.  The figure by the fire rested there, silent, still, and brooding.  Strickland observed with some wonder its power of long, concentrated thinking.  It sat there, not visibly tense, seemingly relaxed, yet as evidently looking into some place of inner motion, wider and swifter than that of the night world about it.  Strickland tried to read.  The clock hand moved toward midnight.

The laird spoke from the great bed.  “Alexander—­”

“I am here, father.”  Alexander rose and went to the sick man’s side.  “You slept finely!  And here we have food for you, and drops to give you strength—­”

The laird swallowed the drops and a spoonful or two of broth.  “There.  Now I want to talk.  Aye, I am strong enough.  I feel stronger.  I am strong.  It hurts me more to check me.  Is that the wind blowing?”

“Yes.  It is a wild night.”

“It is singing.  I could almost pick out the words.  Alexander, there’s a quarrel I have with Touris of Black Hill.  I have no wish to make it up.  He did me a wrong and is a sinner in many ways.  But his sister is different.  If you see her tell her that I aye liked her.”

“Would it make you happier to be reconciled to Mr. Touris?”

“No, it would not!  You were never a canting one, Alexander!  Let that be.  Anger is anger, and it’s weakness to gainsay it!  That is,” said the laird, “when it’s just—­and this is just.  Alexander, my bonny man—­”