His eyes clouded, and he murmured a snatch of song, one of those ranting Jacobite ballads that spread like wildfire after the '45—
"Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar,
'Charlie, meet me an ye daur'——"
A coughing fit interrupted him, weakened him so I thought he was sped; but the ghostly voice went on with a hint of the gay, reckless tune:
"Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye waukin' yet?
Or are your drums a-beatin' yet?
If ye waur waukin' I wad——"
His voice strengthened.
"Ah, your Royal Highness! The procession is ordered—the heralds—waiting—my Lords—Commons——"
He struggled so to rise that to save him I propped him against my shoulder.
"A glad day—this—and long coming. Do you use snuff—sir? 'Tis Rip-Rap—a sound brand."
He open the box and raised a pinch to his nostrils.
"A glad day—sir—but a mad world."