"
His voice, although it trembled a little, was clear and unimpeded,
and, though weak in its modulation, manly.
Something in the woman's heart responded. Was it motherhood or the
deeper godhead? Was it pity for the dignity housed in the crumbling
clay, or repentance for the son of her womb? Or was it that sickness
gave hope, and she could afford to be kind?
"I don't know what you mean, Stephen," she said, more gently than he
had ever heard her speak.
Was it an agony of mind or of body, or was it but a flickering of the
shadows upon his face? A moment, and he gave a half-choked shriek and
fell on the floor. His mother turned from him with disgust and rang
the bell. "Send Tom here," she said.
An elderly, hard-featured man came.
"Stephen is in one of his fits," she said.
The man looked about him: he could see no one in the room but his
mistress.
"There he is," she continued, pointing to the floor. "Take him away.
Get him up to the loft and lay him in the hay."
The man lifted his master like an unwieldy log and carried him,
convulsed, from the room.
Stephen's mother sat down again by the fire and resumed her knitting.
CHAPTER LXV.
THE LAIRD'S VISION.
Malcolm had just seen his master set out for his solitary ride when
one of the maids informed him that a man from Kirkbyres wanted him.
Hiding his reluctance, he went with her and found Tom, who was Mrs.
Stewart's grieve and had been about the place all his days.
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