When
he had finished, he threw the remnants into one of the fires, then
went down to the sea, and there washed his face and hands in a rock
pool, after which they set off again, straying yet further along
the coast.
One of the peculiarities in the friendship of the strange couple
was that, although so closely attached, they should maintain such
a large amount of mutual independence. They never quarrelled, but
would flatly disagree, with never an attempt at compromise; the
whole space between midnight and morning would sometimes glide by
without a word spoken between them; and the one or the other would
often be lingering far behind. As, however, the ultimate goal of
the night's wandering was always understood between them, there
was little danger of their losing each other.
On the present occasion, the laird, still full of his quest, was
the one who lingered. Every few minutes he would stop and stare, now
all around the horizon, now up to the zenith, now over the wastes
of sky--for, any moment, from any spot in heaven, earth, or sea,
the Father of lights might show foot, or hand, or face. He had
at length seated himself on a lichen covered stone with his head
buried in his hands, as if, wearied with vain search for him outside
he would now look within and see if God might not be there, when
suddenly a sharp exclamation from Phemy reached him. He listened.
"Rin! rin! rin!" she cried--the last word prolonged into a scream.
While it yet rang in his ears, the laird was halfway down the steep.
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