“No, I tell you!” cried Lord Mergwain, opening his eyes and sitting up. “When I’m cold I’ll go to—. If you attempt to leave the room, I’ll send a bullet after you.—God have mercy! what’s that at my feet?”
“It is only my son,” replied the laird gently. “We have been with you all night—since you were taken ill, that is.”
“When was that? What do you mean by that?” he said, looking up sharply, with a face of more intelligence than he had yet shown.
“Your lordship had some sort of fit in the night, and if you do not compose yourself, I dread a return of it.”
“You well may, if I stop here,” he returned—then, after a pause, “Did I talk?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord—a good deal.”
“What did I say?”
“Nothing I could understand, my lord.”
“And you did your best, I don’t doubt!” rejoined his lordship with a sneer. “But you know nothing is to be made of what a man says in a fit.”
“I have told your lordship I heard nothing.”