“Bell-flower!” said Leslie, who had a smattering of botany, “that’s a campanula. We’ll call her—‘Campanula.’”
She also made declaration that she was quite satisfied to go with the honorable gentleman, whose height exceeded the tallest of trees. Leslie lifted her up and seated her upon his shoulder, and, as they started, he turned and looked back at the loveliness of the perfumed azalea valley—a sight that was yet to haunt him in the time to come.
“It’s my opeenion,” said M’Gourley, as they took the road, “that there was something forming in yon wood, something dom bad, and you flung it out of the forming eelement, and she was just suckid in.”
“What d’you mean?”
“The wraith of some dead bairn was wanderin’ aboot, and the forming eelement seized it.”
“What forming element? Rubbish! That chap was a lunatic; well, when he felt me touch him it set his lunacy off, that’s all. Why, I once went to a big asylum in Scotland, and I saw a man cutting just the same capers, fighting devils. He’s an opium taker, and the opium is out of his brain, that’s all. Drink does the same thing—Hi! By Jove, look up there! He’s at it still.”
Away up in the wild mountain gorge they saw a figure. It was the Blind One still pursued, still running, and apparently fighting for his life. If his actions were not the outcome of insanity they gave food to the mind for the most terrible suppositions.
Streaming with blood from his mad dashes against the trees, he seemed surrounded on all sides, hemmed in, fighting furiously like a man surrounded by wolves. If a tree chanced to be near, an opening seemed to be made for him by his tormentors towards it, and he would rush at it and dash himself against it, falling back bleeding but fighting still, screaming and all the time being steadily shepherded further and further into the loneliness of the hills.
“Sirs! Sirs!” cried Mac, throwing up his hands as the horrible spectacle vanished round a distant bend of the gorge. “This is no sight for a Christian mon!”
“It’s pretty rotten,” said Leslie who looked rather pale and sick. “Fetch out that flask of yours, Mac. Thanks. Poor devil! would there be any use following him?”