‘Ye’re aye richt, Kirsty!’ answered Steenie, rising. ‘Ye aye ken what I’m needin. I maun win oot, for I’m some chokin like.—But jist come here a minute first,’ he went on, leading the way to the door. There he pointed up into the wild of stars, and said, ‘Ye see yon star o’ the tap o’ that ither ane ’at’s brichter nor itsel?’
‘I see ’t fine, and ken ’t weel,’ answered Kirsty.
‘Weel, whan that starnie comes richt ower the white tap o’ yon stane i’ the mids o’ that side o’ the howe, I s’ be here at the door.’
Kirsty looked at the stone, saw that the star would arrive at the point indicated in about an hour, and said, ‘Weel, I’ll be expeckin ye, Steenie!’ whereupon he departed, going farther up the hill to court the soothing of the silent heaven.
In conditions of consciousness known only to himself and incommunicable, the poor fellow sustained an all but continuous hand-to-hand struggle with insanity, more or less agonized according to the nature and force of its varying assault; in which struggle, if not always victorious, he had yet never been defeated. Often tempted to escape misery by death, he had hitherto stood firm. Some part of every solitary night was spent, I imagine, in fighting that or other evil suggestion. Doubtless, what kept him lord of himself through all the truth-aping delusions that usurped his consciousness, was his unyielding faith in the bonny man.
The name by which he so constantly thought and spoke of the saviour of men was not of his own finding. The story was well known of the idiot, who, having partaken of the Lord’s supper, was heard, as he retired, murmuring to himself, ‘Eh, the bonny man! the bonny man!’ And persons were not wanting, sound in mind as large of heart, who thought the idiot might well have seen him who came to deliver them that were bound. Steenie took up the tale with most believing mind. Never doubting the man had seen the Lord, he responded with the passionate desire himself to see the bonny man. It awoke in him while yet quite a boy, and never left him, but, increasing as he grew, became, as well it might, a fixed idea, a sober, waiting, unebbing passion, urging him to righteousness and lovingkindness.
Kirsty took from her pocket an old translation of Plato’s Phædo, and sat absorbed in it until the star, unheeded of her, attained its goal, and there was Steenie by her side! She shut the book and rose.
‘I’m a heap better, Kirsty,’ said Steenie. ‘The ill colour’s awa doon the stair, and the saft win’ ’s made its w’y oot o’ the lift, an’ ’s won at me. I ’maist think a han’ cam and clappit my heid. Sae noo I’m jist as weel ’s there’s ony need to be o’ this side the mist. It helpit me a heap to ken ’at ye was sittin there: I cud aye rin til ye!—Noo gang awa to yer bed, and tak a guid sleep. I’m some thinkin I’ll be hame til my br’akfast.’
‘Weel, mother’s gaein to the toon the morn, and I’ll be wantit fell sair; I may as weel gang!’ answered Kirsty, and without a goodnight, or farewell of any sort, for she knew how he felt in regard to leave-takings, Kirsty left him, and went slowly home. The moon was up and so bright that every now and then she would stop for a moment and read a little from her book, and then walk on thinking about it.
From that night, even in the stormy dark of winter, Kirsty was not nearly so anxious about Steenie away from the house: on the Horn he had his place of refuge, and she knew he never ventured on the bog after sunset. He always sought her when he wanted to sleep in the daytime, but he was gradually growing quieter in his mind, and, Kirsty had reason to think, slept a good deal more at night.