“Has the doctor been to see ’im, mem?” asked Malcolm.

“Yes, but he says he can’t do anything for him.”

“Wha waits upon ’im, mem?”

“One of the maids and myself.”

“I’ll jist bide wi’ ’im.”

“That will be very kind of you.”

“I s’ bide wi’ ’im till I see ‘im oot o’ this, ae w’y or ither,”, added Malcolm, and sat down by the bedside of his poor distrustful friend.  There Mrs. Stewart left him.

The laird was wandering in the thorny thickets and slimy marshes which, haunted by the thousand misshapen horrors of delirium, beset the gates of life.  That one so near the light and slowly drifting into it should lie tossing in hopeless darkness!  Is it that the delirium falls, a veil of love, to hide other and more real terrors?

His eyes would now and then meet those of Malcolm as they gazed tenderly upon him, but the living thing that looked out of the windows was darkened and saw him not.  Occasionally a word would fall from him, or a murmur of half-articulation float up like the sound of a river of souls; but whether Malcolm heard, or only seemed to hear, something like this, he could not tell, for he could not be certain that he had not himself shaped the words by receiving the babble into the moulds of the laird’s customary thought and speech:  “I dinna ken whaur I cam frae—­I kenna whaur I’m gaein’ till.—­Eh, gien He wad but come oot an’ shaw Himsel’!—­O Lord! tak the deevil aff o’ my puir back.—­O Father o’ lichts! gar him tak the hump wi’ him.  I hae no fawvor for’t, though it’s been my constant compainion this mony a lang.”

But in general he only moaned, and after the words thus heard or fashioned by Malcolm lay silent and nearly still for an hour.

All the waning afternoon Malcolm sat by his side, and neither mother, maid nor doctor came near them.

“Dark wa’s an’ no a breath!” he murmured or seemed to murmur again.  “Nae gerse nor flooers nor bees!  I hae na room for my hump, an’ I canna lie upo’ ’t, for that wad kill me.  Wull I ever ken whaur I cam frae?  The wine’s unco guid.  Gie me a drap mair, gien ye please, Lady Horn.—­I thought the grave was a better place.  I hae lain safter afore I dee’d.—­Phemy!  Phemy!  Rin, Phemy, rin!  I s’ bide wi’ them this time.  Ye rin, Phemy!”

As it grew dark the air turned very chill, and snow began to fall thick and fast.  Malcolm laid a few sticks on the smouldering peat-fire, but they were damp and did not catch.  All at once the laird gave a shriek, and crying out, “Mither! mither!” fell into a fit so violent that the heavy bed shook with his convulsions.  Malcolm held his wrists and called aloud.  No one came, and, bethinking himself that none could help, he waited in silence for what would soon follow.

The fit passed quickly, and he lay quiet.  The sticks had meantime dried, and suddenly they caught fire and blazed up.  The laird turned his face toward the flame; a smile came over it; his eyes opened wide, and with such an expression of seeing gazed beyond Malcolm that he turned his in the same direction.