This old man was so thin and grey that at first Farquhar took him for a patch of mist, but as he went nearer he saw that he was a human being, and, going close up to the wall and shouting with all his might, for he felt sure that such an ancient man would be deaf, he asked him if he could tell him where his friends had gone to, and what had happened to his father's dwelling.
The old man listened, then he shook his head. "I never heard of him," he answered slowly; "but perhaps my father might be able to tell you."
"Your father!" said Farquhar, in great surprise. "Is it possible that your father is alive?"
"Aye he is," answered the old man, with a little laugh. "If you go into the house you'll find him sitting in the arm-chair by the fire."
Farquhar did as he was bid, and on entering the cottage found another old man, who was so thin and withered and bent that he looked as if he must at least be a hundred years old. He was feebly twisting ropes to bind the thatch on the roof.
"Can ye tell me aught of my friends, or where my father's cottage is?" asked Farquhar again, hardly expecting that this second old man would be able to answer him.
"I cannot," mumbled this ancient person; "but perhaps my father can tell you."
"Your father!" exclaimed Farquhar, more astonished than ever. "But surely he must be dead long ago."
The old man shook his head with a weird grimace.
"Look there," he said, and pointed with a twisted finger, to a leathern purse, or sporran, which was hanging to one of the posts of a wooden bedstead in the corner.