"Fire and sleet and candle-light;
And Christ receive thy soul." —Vol. I., p. 324.
"'For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come—'" Griggs quoted, and stopped.
"'When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.' You do not know your Shakespeare, young man."
"'Must give us pause,'" continued Griggs. "I was thinking of the dreams, not of the rest."
"Dreams? Yes. There will be dreams there. Dreams, and other things—'this ae night of all.' Not that my reason admits that they can be more than dreams, you know, Griggs. Reason says 'to sleep—no more.' And fancy says 'perchance to dream.' Well, well, it will be a long dream, that's all."
"Yes. We shall be dead a long time. Better drink now." And Griggs drank.
"'Fire and sleet and candle-light,
And Christ receive thy soul;'"
said Dalrymple, with a far-away look in his pale eyes. "Do you know the Lyke-Wake Dirge, Griggs? It is a grand dirge. Hark to the swing of it.
"'This ae night, this ae night,
Every night and all,
Fire and sleet and candle-light,
And Christ receive thy soul.'"
He repeated the strange words in a dull, matter-of-fact way, with a Scotch accent rarely perceptible in his conversation. Griggs listened. He had heard the dirge before, with all its many stanzas, and it had always had an odd fascination for him. He said nothing.