“Nay, she’s coing to dee, and she’s ferry sorry she wasna always coot frien’s.”
“Oh, never mind that now, Watty!”
“Put she toes mind, Meester Stevey, and she’s ferry sorry. Ye’ll pe coing pack to Scotland, sir, and ye’ll tak’ care an’ co and tell my mither a’ aboot her and how she deed.”
Steve could bear no more. He hurried across to where Andrew was lying, and took him a basin of the doctor’s soup. But his success was very little better here. All the men were in the dull, apathetic state pretty well expressed by the Highlander, who, after partaking of a few spoonfuls of the stimulus, said softly:
“Ye’ll do her a favour?”
“Yes, Andra, if I can. But stop; do me one first. Get up, and try and help us.”
“Nay, she’ll never ket oop acain,” said the man. “Ye’ll chust wait till she’s deed, an’ then come an’ tak’ awa’ the pipes. They’re doon here peside me in her plankets, and she’ll tak’ care of them an’ carry them pack hame wi’ her; an’ laddie, if she’ll try an’ learn the pipes, it’s the far pestest music as effer wass, an’ she’ll thenk sometimes apoot puir Andra McByle?”
Steve promised. At another time he could have laughed; but now, in, that dim, gloomy place, surrounded by the faces of the gaunt men whose eyes gleamed faintly in the light of the lanthorn, it all seemed to be more than he could bear; and at last, when everything possible had been done, he followed the doctor back to the cabin, where they sat down in silence.
The doctor was the first to speak.
“It’s hard work, Steve boy,” he said; “but we’ve got to do it, and with God’s help we will. Poor fellows! they have the muscles, but they have no energy; and I tell you frankly, I’m beginning to be afraid.”