'Don't call it a poem,' interrupted Ericson. 'It's not worthy of the name.'
'I will ca' 't a poem,' persisted Robert; 'for it's a poem to me, whatever it may be to you. An' hoo I ken 'at it's a poem is jist this: it opens my een like music to something I never saw afore.'
'What is that?' asked Ericson, not sorry to be persuaded that there might after all be some merit in the productions painfully despised of himself.
'Jist this: it's only whan ye dinna want to fa' asleep 'at it luiks fearsome to ye. An' maybe the fear o' death comes i' the same way: we're feared at it 'cause we're no a'thegither ready for 't; but whan the richt time comes, it'll be as nat'ral as fa'in' asleep whan we're doonricht sleepy. Gin there be a God to ca' oor Father in heaven, I'm no thinkin' that he wad to sae mony bonny tunes pit a scraich for the hinder end. I'm thinkin', gin there be onything in 't ava—ye ken I'm no sayin', for I dinna ken—we maun jist lippen till him to dee dacent an' bonny, an' nae sic strange awfu' fash aboot it as some fowk wad mak a religion o' expeckin'.'
Ericson looked at Robert with admiration mingled with something akin to merriment.
'One would think it was your grandfather holding forth, Robert,' he said. 'How came you to think of such things at your age?'
'I'm thinkin',' answered Robert, 'ye warna muckle aulder nor mysel' whan ye took to sic things, Mr. Ericson. But, 'deed, maybe my luckie-daddie (grandfather) pat them i' my heid, for I had a heap ado wi' his fiddle for a while. She's deid noo.'
Not understanding him, Ericson began to question, and out came the story of the violins. They talked on till the last of their coals was burnt out, and then they went to bed.
Shargar had undertaken to rouse them early, that they might set out on their long walk with a long day before them. But Robert was awake before Shargar. The all but soulless light of the dreary season awoke him, and he rose and looked out. Aurora, as aged now as her loved Tithonus, peered, gray-haired and desolate, over the edge of the tossing sea, with hardly enough of light in her dim eyes to show the broken crests of the waves that rushed shorewards before the wind of her rising. Such an east wind was the right breath to issue from such a pale mouth of hopeless revelation as that which opened with dead lips across the troubled sea on the far horizon. While he gazed, the east darkened; a cloud of hail rushed against the window; and Robert retreated to his bed. But ere he had fallen asleep, Ericson was beside him; and before he was dressed, Ericson appeared again, with his stick in his hand. They left Shargar still asleep, and descended the stairs, thinking to leave the house undisturbed. But Mrs. Fyvie was watching for them, and insisted on their taking the breakfast she had prepared. They then set out on their journey of forty miles, with half a loaf in their pockets, and money enough to get bread and cheese, and a bottle of the poorest ale, at the far-parted roadside inns.
When Shargar awoke, he wept in desolation, then crept into Robert's bed, and fell fast asleep again.