"Mr. Stephen's come hame, sir," he said, touching his bonnet, a
civility for which Malcolm was not grateful.
"It's no possible," returned Malcolm. "I saw him last nicht."
"He cam aboot ten o'clock, sir, an' hed a turn o' the fa'in' sickness
o' the spot. He's verra ill the noo, an' the mistress sent me ower to
speir gien ye wad obleege her by gaein' to see him."
"Has he ta'en till's bed?" asked Malcolm.
"We pat him infill 't, sir. He's ravin' mad, an' I'm thinkin' he's no
far frae his hin'er en'."
"I'll gang wi' ye direckly," said Malcolm.
In a few minutes they were riding fast along the road to Kirkbyres,
neither with much to say to the other, for Malcolm distrusted every
one about the place, and Tom was by nature taciturn.
"What garred them sen' for me, div ye ken?" asked Malcolm at length
when they had gone about halfway.
"He cried oot upo' ye i' the nicht," answered Tom.
When they arrived Malcolm was shown into the drawing-room, where Mrs.
Stewart met him with red eyes. "Will you come and see my poor boy?"
she said.
"I wull du that, mem. Is he verra ill?"
"Very. I'm afraid he is in a bad way."
She led him to a dark, old-fashioned chamber, rich and gloomy. There,
sunk in the down of a huge bed with carved ebony posts, lay the
laird, far too ill to be incommoded by the luxury to which he was
unaccustomed. His head kept tossing from side to side and his eyes
seemed searching in vacancy.
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