"Be it as you wish," replied John Ramsay, "but I must set out to-morrow somewhat early.--Hark! There are horses' feet coming along the frosty road. Who can it be, I wonder, at this late hour?"
"Some of our good cousins come to rest for the night," said Sir George Ramsay, with a smile; "it can be no one on business of much consequence, by the slowness of the horses' tread."
He was mistaken, however, for the result of the meeting which was about to take place was of infinite consequence to the fate of his brother and himself. The two walked leisurely along the little path which led back to the house, and passing through a small postern door, proceeded to the gates to welcome the coming guest. All that they could see, when they looked out along the road, was a dim figure on horseback, at the distance of about two hundred yards, and something like another horseman behind. Both were coming very slowly, although the coldness of the night might well have rendered quicker progression agreeable both to man and horse. As the travellers were evidently approaching the house for the purpose of stopping there, Sir George Ramsay called out some of the servants; and the moment after, his brother, looking intently forward, said, "It is very like Andrew's figure, but riding bent and listless, as I have seen him when he is drunk."
"I hope he has not chosen that condition to present himself on his return," said Sir George. "Halloo! Who comes?"
"'Tis I, Sir George," answered the voice of Ramsay of Newburn, "faint and weary, and needing much your hospitality."
It was evident, from the way in which he spoke, that the young gentleman was perfectly sober; and Sir George merely replied, "Come in, Andrew, come in. You shall be right welcome. Here, William, take Newburn's horse."
"Lend me your arm, good fellow," said the guest, slowly dismounting. "I am not over supple, nor so strong as I once was."
His own servant rode up with the saddle-bags at the same moment; and being assisted from his horse, he was led into the house, where lights were burning in what was called the great chamber. Both Sir George Ramsay and his brother were struck and moved with the ghastly paleness of their cousin's countenance, and everything was done that kindness could devise to refresh and revive him.
"Ah, now," said Sir George, after he had drunk a cup of that fine Bordeaux wine which was to be found nowhere in greater perfection than in Scotland, "there is some colour coming into your cheek again. You will do well now."
"My cheek will never bear the rose again, Dalhousie," replied his cousin. "It was once red enough, but its ruddiness is gone for ever."