“Poor blind man!” said Campanula, looking back up the path.
“Whoat?” cried Mac. “Whoat did y’ say?”
“Blind man,” replied Campanula; “he who came last night—you remember!”
M’Gourley took off his old top hat, and drew his coat sleeve across his forehead. Beads of sweat had sprung there all of a sudden.
He stood for a second or two looking at Campanula, and then for a second or two looking up the path, pied with sunshine and shadow, the pretty path that for him had suddenly been made horrible. There was nothing to be seen, nothing but the sunshine and shadow.
“My eyes are growing auld,” he said at length. “Do you see him still, Campanula?”
She had turned away to look at a fern that was growing on the bank.
“I do not see him now,” she replied. “He has gone through the gate.”
“Are you sure,” said Mac, speaking in a subdued voice, “that he was the same man that came last night?”
Campanula was quite sure.