"
"Nothing.... What is 'nothing'?"
Ian drummed upon the table and whistled "Lillibullero."
"Something--nothing. Nothing--something! Old Steadfast, you are a
sight for sair een! They say you make the best of lairds! Every cotter
sings of just ways!"
"My father was a good laird. I would not shatter the tradition. Come
with me to Edinburgh and London, on that journey I wrote you of!"
"No. I want to sink into the summer green and not raise my head from
some old poetry book! I have been marching and countermarching until I
am tired. As for what you have in your mind, don't fash yourself about
it! I will say that, at the moment, I think it _is_ a dead leaf.... Of
course, should the Pope's staff unexpectedly begin to bud and
flower--! But it mayn't--indeed, it only looks at present smooth and
polished and dead.... I left the army because, naturally, I didn't
want to be there in case--just in case--the staff budded. Heigho! It
is the truth. You need not look troubled," said Ian.
His friend must rest with that. He did so, and put that matter aside.
At any rate, things stood there better than he had feared. "I shall be
gone a month or two. But you'll still be here when I come home?"
"As far as I know I'll be here through the summer. I have no plans....
If the leaf remains dry and dead, what should you say to taking ship
at Leith in September for Holland? Amsterdam--then Antwerp--then the
Rhine.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142