“Ay, ay, and I never knew I loved him half so much till now.”
* * * * *
Mac, once the hardy, resolute Scot, passed away that same day.
In the semi-darkness of the cave Ingomar was kneeling by his side and holding his hand.
He had lived a Scot; he died a Scot.
Ingomar thought he had fallen into a slumber, so quiet did he lie. But he spoke at last, though with feeble, faltering voice.
“It’s you, isn’t it, Ingomar?”
“I’m here, dear Mac.”
“Well, I—I know I’m dying. I wouldn’t care—but mother——”
“What can I do to ease your mind?”