They had not gone many steps from the top of the ascent,
however, before the fugitive threw himself on the
ground exhausted, and it was all Malcolm could do
to get him to the town, where, unable to go a pace
further, he sank down on Mrs Catanach’s doorstep.
A light was burning in the cottage, but Malcolm would
seek shelter for him anywhere rather than with her,
and, in terror of her quick ears, caught him up in
his arms like a child, and hurried away with him to
Miss Horn s.
“Eh sirs!” exclaimed Miss Horn, when she
opened the door—for Jean was among the
merrymakers—“wha ’s this ’at
’s killt noo?”
“It’s the laird—Mr Stewart,”
returned Malcolm. “He’s no freely
killt, but nigh han’.”
“Na! weel I wat! Come in an’ set
him doon till we see,” said Miss Horn, turning
and leading the way up to her little parlour.
There Malcolm laid his burden on the sofa, and gave
a brief account of the rescue.
“Lord preserve ’s, Ma’colm!”
cried Miss Horn, as soon as he had ended his tale,
to which she had listened in silence, with fierce
eyes and threatening nose; “isna ’t a mercy
I wasna made like some fowk, or I couldna ha’
bidden to see the puir fallow misguidet that gait!
It’s a special mercy, Ma’colm MacPhail,
to be made wantin’ ony sic thing as feelin’s.”
She was leaving the room as she spoke—to
return instantly with brandy. The laird swallowed
some with an effort, and began to revive.
“Eh, sirs!” exclaimed Miss Horn, regarding
him now more narrowly —“but he’s
in an awfu’ state o’ dirt! I maun
wash his face an’ han’s, an’ pit
him till ‘s bed. Could ye help aff wi’
’s claes, Ma’colm? Though I haena
ony feelin’s, I ’m jist some eerie-like
at the puir body’s back.”
The last words were uttered in what she judged a safe
aside.
As if she had been his mother, she washed his face
and hands, and dried them tenderly, the laird submitting
like a child. He spoke but one word—when
she took him by the hand to lead him to the room where
her cousin used to sleep: “Father o’
lichts!” he said, and no more. Malcolm
put him to bed, where he lay perfectly still, whether
awake or asleep they could not tell.
He then set out to go back to Lossie House, promising
to return after he had taken his grandfather home,
and seen him also safe in bed.
When Malcolm returned, Jean had retired for the night,
and again it was Miss Horn who admitted him, and led
him to her parlour. It was a low ceiled room,
with lean spider legged furniture and dingy curtains.
Everything in it was suggestive of a comfort slowly
vanishing. An odour of withered rose leaves pervaded
the air. A Japanese cabinet stood in one corner,
and on the mantelpiece a pair of Chinese fans with
painted figures whose faces were embossed in silk,
between which ticked an old French clock, whose supporters
