“Wha wad ye hae come oot?” asked Phemy.
“Ye ken wha, weel eneuch. They say he’s a’ gait at ance: jist hearken. What for will he aye bide in, an’ never come oot an’ lat a puir body see him?”
The speech was broken into pauses, filled by the hush rather than noise of the tide, and the odour-like wandering of the soft air in the convolutions of their ears.
“The lown win’ maun be his breath—sae quaiet!—He’s no hurryin’ himsel’ the nicht.—There’s never naebody rins efter him.—Eh, Phemy! I jist thoucht he was gauin’ to speyk!”
This last exclamation he uttered in a whisper, as the louder gush of a larger tide-pulse died away on the shore.
“Luik, Phemy, luik!” he resumed. “Luik oot yonner! Dinna ye see something ’at micht grow to something?”
His eyes were fixed on a faint spot of steely blue, out on the sea, not far from the horizon. It was hard to account for, with such a sky overheard, wherein was no lighter part to be seen that might be reflected in the water below; but neither of the beholders was troubled about its cause: there it glimmered on in the dimness of the wide night—a cold, faint splash of blue-grey.
“I dinna think muckle o’ that, sir,” said Phemy.
“It micht be the mark o’ the sole o’ his fut, though,” returned the laird. “He micht hae jist setten ’t doon, an’ the watter hae lowed (flamed) up aboot it, an’ the low no be wullin’ to gang oot! Luik sharp, Phemy; there may come anither at the neist stride— anither fut-mark. Luik ye that gait an’ I’ll luik this.—What for willna he come oot? The lift maun be fu’ o’ ’im, an’ I’m hungert for a sicht o’ ’im. Gien ye see ony thing, Phemy, cry oot.”
“What will I cry?” asked Phemy.