Bran scratched at the door
and was admitted. Far off, Alice's voice was heard singing. Strickland
read on. The laird of Glenfernie was not at Rome, in the Capitol, by
Pompey's statue. He walked with Elspeth Barrow the feathery green
glen.
Davie appeared in the door. "A letter, sir, come post." He brought it
to Glenfernie's outstretched hand.
"From Edinburgh--from Jamie," said the latter.
Strickland laid down his book and moved to the window. Standing there,
his eyes upon the great cedar, massive and tall as though it would
build a tower to heaven, his mind left Brutus, Caesar, and Cassius, and
played somewhat idly over the British Isles. He was recalled by an
exclamation, not loud, but so intense and fierce that it startled like
a meteor of the night. He turned. Glenfernie sat still in his great
chair, but his features were changed, his mouth working, his eyes
shooting light. Strickland advanced toward him.
"Not bad news of Jamie!"
"Not of Jamie! From Jamie." He thrust the letter under the other's
eyes. "Read--read it out!"
Strickland read aloud.
"Here is authoritative news. Ian Rullock, after lying two
months in the tolbooth, has escaped. A gaoler connived, it
is supposed, else it would seem impossible. Galbraith tells
me he would certainly have been hanged in September.
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