"Each time I started up sprang a stout hedge! But they're all down now
and here I am!" He raised his wine-glass. "To home, and the sweetness
thereof!" said Alexander.
"I am glad to see you back," said Strickland, and meant it.
The late sunlight streamed through the open door. Bran, the old hound,
basked in it; it wiped the rust from the ancient weapons on the wall
and wrote hieroglyphics in among them; it made glow the wine in the
glass. Alexander turned in his chair.
"It's near sunset.... Now what, just, did you hear about Ian Rullock's
going?"
"We supposed that he would be here through the autumn--certainly until
after your return. Then, three days ago, comes Peter Lindsay with the
note for you, and word that he was gone. Lindsay thought that he had
received letters from great people and had gone to them for a visit."
Alexander spread the missive that had been given him upon the table.
"It's short!" He held it so that Strickland might read:
GLENFERNIE,--Perhaps the leaf is not yet wholly sere.
Be that as it may be, I'm leaving Black Hill for a time.
IAN RULLOCK.
"That's a puzzling billet!" said Alexander. "'_Glenfernie_--_Ian
Rullock!_'"
"What does he mean by the leaf not dead?"
"That was a figure of speech used between us in regard to a certain
thing.
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