All the time Marcella ached with pity for him now that she feared him no longer.  He seemed so naive, so wistful to her, this strange father whom she could never understand, but who seemed like a child very keen on a game of make-believe.  Things went from bad to worse, but they sat down to their meal of oatcake and milk uncomplaining, after a long grace.  It was never the way of the Lashcairns to notice overmuch the demands of the body.  And now they sat by the almost bare refectory table, and none of them would mention hunger; Andrew did not feel it.  His zeal fed him.  Marcella, however, took to going down oftener to the huts and always Wullie, who sensed these things, toasted fish—­three or four at a time—­over the embers, and roasted potatoes in the bed of ashes.

It was in the summer following this last obsession that Andrew was taken suddenly ill.  One evening, praying with blazing ardour for the souls of the whole world, consciousness of unbearable weight came upon him.  Standing in the little chapel he felt that he was being pressed to his knees and there, with a terrible voice, he cried: 

“Yes, Lord, put all the weight of Thy cross upon me, Thy poor servant—­Thy Simon of Cyrene who so untimely, so unhelpfully hath found Thee.”

Those watching believed that they saw the black shadow of a cross laid over his bowed shoulders.  But then, like Andrew, they were Kelts who could see with eyes that were not apparent.  Andrew was carried home to his bed, and Dr. Angus, the same doctor he had driven forth in violence from his wife’s sickness, came to him.

Thorough in body as in soul, Andrew seemed called upon to bear all the woes of the world.  Sometimes, watching him lying there with closed eyes and lips that moved faintly as he prayed for courage, Marcella wished she could see him once again come tearing into the room in a passion of destruction.  His gentleness, his pathos, and the way he talked so quietly to God with his beautiful voice, almost tore her in two with pity.

Many nights his illness made it impossible for him to lie down, and then he would stand, wrapped in a blanket—­for his dressing-gown had long since been torn to shreds—­his hands clutching the post of his ancient bed, his eyes gazing deeply at the faded sun in splendour on the tapestry back of the bed while he read slowly the old boastful motto, “By myself I stand.”  And the girl, lying on a little couch where she took turns with Aunt Janet in nursing him through the night, would hear him talking to God by the hour.

“Not by myself, O Lord, but in Thy might.  Thou art my Rock and my Fortress, my Defence on my right hand, my strong shield in whom I trust—­”

Silence—­except for the grating of rats in the ceiling as they tried to gnaw the beams, and the moaning of the wind.  Then the musical voice would say, with infinite tenderness: 

“He hath said thy foot shall not be moved.  Thy keeper shall never, never slumber nor sleep.  O Lord, I am not asking Thee a very great thing, for already Thou hast done wondrous things for me.  This is a little thing, O Thou that never sleepest!  Give me ten minutes’ rest, ten minutes’ sleep.  To Thee a thousand years are but as yesterday.  To me, O Lord, in this weariness, a night is as a thousand years.”