“Weel may I want to save ye, bairn,” added the Highlander tenderly, “for it was the thocht of a’ ye riskit for the like of me at the three roads that made me consider wi’ mysel’ that I’ve aiblins been turning my back a’ my wilfu’ life on love that’s bigger than a man’s deservings.  It’s near done now, and it’ll never lie in my poor power so much as rightly to thank ye.  It’s strange that a man should set store by a good name that he doesna deserve; but if any blessings of mine could bring ye good, they’re yours, that saved an old soldier’s honour, and let him die respectit in his regiment.”

“Oh, M’Alister, let me fetch one of the chaplains to write a letter to fetch your father,” cried John Broom.

“The minister’s been here this morning,” said the Highlander, “and I’ve tell’t him mair than I’ve tell’t you.  And he’s jest directed me to put my sinful trust in the Father of us a’.  I’ve sinned heaviest against Him, laddie, but His love is stronger than the lave.”

John Broom remained by his friend, whose painful fits of coughing, and of gasping for breath, were varied by intervals of seeming stupor.  When a candle had been brought in and placed near the bed, the Highlander roused himself and asked,—­

“Is there a Bible on yon table?  Could ye read a bit to me, laddie?”

There is little need to dwell on the bitterness of heart with which John Broom confessed,—­

“I can’t read big words, M’Alister.”

“Did ye never go to school?” said the Scotchman.

“I didn’t learn,” said the poor boy; “I played.”

“Aye, aye.  Weel, ye’ll learn, when ye gang hame,” said the Highlander, in gentle tones.

“I’ll never get home,” said John Broom, passionately.  “I’ll never forgive myself.  I’ll never get over it, that I couldn’t read to ye when ye wanted me, M’Alister.”

“Gently, gently,” said the Scotchman.  “Dinna daunt yoursel’ owermuch wi’ the past, laddie.  And for me—­I’m not that presoomtious to think I can square up a misspent life as a man might compound wi’s creditors.  ’Gin HE forgi’es me, He’ll forgi’e; but it’s not a prayer up or a chapter doun that’ll stan’ between me and the Almighty.  So dinna fret yoursel’, but let me think while I may.”

And so, far into the night, the Highlander lay silent, and John Broom watched by him.

It was just midnight when he partly raised himself, and cried,—­

“Whisht, laddie! do ye hear the pipes?”

The dying ears must have been quick, for John Broom heard nothing; but in a few moments he heard the bagpipes from the officers’ mess, where they were keeping Hogmenay.  They were playing the old year out with “Auld lang syne,” and the Highlander beat the tune out with his hand, and his eyes gleamed out of his rugged face in the dim light, as cairngorms glitter in dark tartan.

There was a pause after the first verse, and he restless, and turning doubtfully to where John Broom sat, as if his sight were failing, he said, “Ye’ll mind your promise, ye’ll gang hame?” And after awhile he repeated the last word.