All at once the laird
gave a shriek, and crying out, "Mither, mither!" fell into a fit
so violent that the heavy bed shook with his convulsions. Malcolm
held his wrists and called aloud. No one came, and bethinking himself
that none could help, he waited in silence, for what would follow.
The fit passed quickly, and he lay quiet. The sticks had meantime
dried, and suddenly they caught fire and blazed up. The laird turned
his face towards the flame; a smile came over it; his eyes opened
wide, and with such an expression of seeing gazed beyond Malcolm,
that he turned his in the same direction.
"Eh, the bonny man! The bonny man!" murmured the laird.
But Malcolm saw nothing, and turned again to the laird: his jaw had
fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of
a sunset. He was dead.
Malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what had taken
place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that his friend
was at rest.
He had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken by a boy
on a fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him.
"Whaur are ye for?" asked Malcolm.
"I'm gaein' for Mistress Cat'nach," answered the boy.
"Gang yer wa's than, an' dinna haud the deid waitin'," said Malcolm,
with a shudder.
The boy cast a look of dismay behind him, and galloped off.
The snow still fell, and the night was dark. Malcolm spent nearly
two hours on the way, and met the boy returning, who told him that
Mrs Catanach was not to be found.
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