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 thoucht 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 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 towards 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.
“Eh, the bonny man! The bonny man!” murmured the laird.
But Malcolm saw nothing, and turned again to the laird: his jaw had fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of a sunset. He was dead.
Malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what had taken place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that his friend was at rest.
He had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken by a boy on a fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him.
“Whaur are ye for?” asked Malcolm.
“I’m gaein’ for Mistress Cat’nach,” answered the boy.