...
Ian put his hands over his eyes, shook himself, started up and stood
at the window. Sky, and roofs on roofs, and in the street below toy
figures, pedestrians. "Come back--come back to breathable air! Now
what's to be done--what's to be done?" After some moments he turned
and picked up the letter upon the floor and read it twice. In memory
and in imagination he could see the fishing-town, the inn there, the
dunes, the ocean beach fretted by the long, incoming wave. Perhaps
and most probably, this very bright afternoon, the laird of Glenfernie
waited for him there, pacing the sands, perhaps, watching the comers
to the inn door.... Well, he must watch in vain. Ian Rullock would one
day give him satisfaction, but certainly not now. Vast affairs might
not be daffed aside for the laird of Glenfernie's convenience! Ian
stood staring out of window at those huddled roofs, the challenge
still in his hand. Then, slowly, he tore the paper to pieces and
committed it to the brazier where was already consumed Black Hill's
communication.
That evening he supped with Warburton, and the next morning saw him
and Donal riding forth from Paris, by St.-Denis, on toward Dunkirk.
From this place, four days later, sailed the brig _Cock of the North_,
destination the Beauly Firth. Dr. Robert Bonshaw and his man
experienced, despite the prediction of the Frenchman of quality, a
rough and long voyage.
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