The white ash fell, the clock ticked, the wind went around the house
with a faint, banshee crying. The figure by the fire rested there,
silent, still, and brooding. Strickland observed with some wonder its
power of long, concentrated thinking. It sat there, not visibly
tense, seemingly relaxed, yet as evidently looking into some place of
inner motion, wider and swifter than that of the night world about it.
Strickland tried to read. The clock hand moved toward midnight.
The laird spoke from the great bed. "Alexander--"
"I am here, father." Alexander rose and went to the sick man's side.
"You slept finely! And here we have food for you, and drops to give
you strength--"
The laird swallowed the drops and a spoonful or two of broth. "There.
Now I want to talk. Aye, I am strong enough. I feel stronger. I am
strong. It hurts me more to check me. Is that the wind blowing?"
"Yes. It is a wild night."
"It is singing. I could almost pick out the words. Alexander, there's
a quarrel I have with Touris of Black Hill. I have no wish to make it
up. He did me a wrong and is a sinner in many ways. But his sister is
different. If you see her tell her that I aye liked her."
"Would it make you happier to be reconciled to Mr. Touris?"
"No, it would not! You were never a canting one, Alexander! Let that
be.
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