"
"Hoot, laird! ye ken weel eneuch ye cam frae Go-od," answered Phemy,
lengthening out the word with solemn utterance.
The laird did not reply, and again the night closed around them,
and the sea hushed at their hearts. But a soft light air began
to breathe from the south, and it waked the laird to more active
thought.
"Gien he wad but come oot an' shaw himsel'!" he said. "What for
disna he come oot?"
"Wha wad ye hae come oot?" asked Phemy.
"Ye ken wha, weel eneuch. They say he 's a' gait at ance: jist
hearken. What for will he aye bide in, an' never come oot an' lat
a puir body see him?"
The speech was broken into pauses, filled by the hush rather than
noise of the tide, and the odour-like wandering of the soft air in
the convolutions of their ears.
"The lown win' maun be his breath--sae quaiet!--He 's no
hurryin' himsel' the nicht.--There 's never naebody rins efter
him.--Eh, Phemy! I jist thoucht he was gauin' to speyk!"
This last exclamation he uttered in a whisper, as the louder gush
of a larger tide pulse died away on the shore.
"Luik, Phemy, luik!" he resumed. "Luik oot yonner! Dinna ye see
something 'at micht grow to something?"
His eyes were fixed on a faint spot of steely blue, out on the sea,
not far from the horizon. It was hard to account for, with such a
sky overheard, wherein was no lighter part to be seen that might
be reflected in the water below; but neither of the beholders was
troubled about its cause: there it glimmered on in the dimness of
the wide night--a cold, faint splash of blue grey.
Pages:
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554