His great frame, his bearing, the air of him, had
quietude, but not listlessness; there seemed at once calm and
intensity as of a still center that had flung off the storm. Time
flowed. Thought Strickland:
"He is as far as I am from death in that water. I'll cease to spy."
He moved away, moss and ling muffling step, gained and dipped behind
the shoulder of the moor. The horse grazed on. The laird sat still,
his arms upon his knees, his head a little lifted, his eyes crossing
the Kelpie's Pool to the wave-line against the sky.
Strickland went to where the moor path ran by the outermost trees of
the glen head. Here he sat down beneath an oak and waited. Another
hour passed; then he heard the horse's hoofs. He rose and met
Glenfernie home-returning.
"It is good to see you, Strickland!"
"I found you yonder by the Kelpie's Pool. Then I came here and
waited."
"I have spent hours there.... They were not unhappy. They were not at
all unhappy."
They moved together along the moor track, the horse following.
"I am glad and glad again that you have come--"
"I have been coming a good while. But there were preventions."
"We have heard nothing direct for almost a year."
"Then my letters did not reach you. I wrote, but knew that they might
not. There is the smoke from Mother Binning's cot." He stood still to
watch the mounting feather.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337