“What’s come till ’im?” asked the laird, in the sharpened tone of anxiety.
“It’s no muckle, he says himsel’. But his heid’s some sair yet.”
“What maks his heid sair? He was weel eneuch whan he gaed this mornin’.”
“The maister knockit ’im doon.”
The laird started as if one had struck him in the face. The blood reddened his forehead, and his old eyes flashed like two stars. All the battle-fury of the old fighting race seemed to swell up from ancient fountains amongst the unnumbered roots of his being, and rush to his throbbing brain. He clenched his withered fist, drew himself up straight, and made his knees strong. For a moment he felt as in the prime of life and its pride. The next his fist relaxed, his hand fell by his side, and he bowed his head.
“The Lord hae mercy upo’ me!” he murmured. “I was near takin’ the affairs o’ ane o’ his into my han’s!”
He covered his face with his wrinkled hands, and the girl stood beside him in awe-filled silence. But she did not quite comprehend, and was troubled at seeing him stand thus motionless. In the trembling voice of one who would comfort her superior, she said,
“Dinna greit, laird. He’ll be better, I’m thinkin’, afore ye win till ’im. It was Grannie gart me come—no him.”
Speechless the laird turned, and without even entering the house, walked away to go to the village. He had reached the valley-road before he discovered that Agnes was behind him.
“Dinna ye come, Aggie,” he said; “ye may be wantit at hame.”