“But, papa, I got up because I was so cold I could not sleep. If you will let me, I would much rather sit with you. I shall be much more comfortable here.”
That his son should have been cold in the night distressed the laird. He felt as if, for the sake of strangers, he had neglected his own—the specially sent. He would have persuaded Cosmo to go to his father’s bed, which was in a warmer room, but the boy begged so to be allowed to remain that he yielded.
They had talked in a low voice for fear of disturbing the sleeper, and now were silent. Cosmo rolled himself in his plaid, lay down at his father’s feet, and was soon fast asleep: with his father there, the chamber had lost all its terrors, and was just like any other home-feeling room of the house. Many a time in after years did that night, that room, that fire, and the feeling of his father over his head, while the bad lord lay snoring within the dark curtains, rise before him; and from the memory he would try to teach himself, that, if he were towards his great Father in his house as he was then towards his earthly father in his, he would never fear anything.
To know one’s-self as safe amid storm and darkness, amid fire and water, amid disease and pain, even during the felt approach of death, is to be a Christian, for that is how the Master felt in the hour of darkness, because he knew it a fact.
All night long, at intervals, the old man moaned, and every now and then would mutter sentences unintelligible to the laird, but sown with ugly, sometimes fearful words. In the gray of the morning he woke.
“Bring me brandy,” he cried in a voice of discontent.
The laird rose and went to him. When he saw the face above him, a horror came upon his—a look like that they found frozen on it.
“Who are you?” he gasped. “Where am I?”
“You came here in the storm last night, my lord,” said the laird.
“Cursed place! I never had such horrible dreams in my life. Where am I—do you hear? Why don’t you answer me?”