And Elspeth had no sooner gripped Elsie by her frock than Posty flung up his arms, and was whirled down the river, now running like a mill-race, and Elspeth fancied she saw him turning over and over, for he seemed to be insensible.
Within an hour they found his body down below the Lodge with many wounds on it, besides that gash, and they knew at once that he had been dashed to death against the stones.
They carried him to the Lodge—the Colonel insisted on being a bearer—and for two hours by the clock they did their best for Posty.
“It 's no a drop o' water 'ill droon Posty,” said Jamie Soutar, “and that his ain Tochty, an' as for a clout (blow) on the head, what's that tae a man like Posty! he 'll be on the road the mornin'.” But Jamie spoke with the fierce assurance of a man that fears the worst and is afraid of breaking down.
“The water hes been ower muckle for him aifter a',” our cynic said to Archie Moncur, who had long striven to make a teetotaller of Posty, as they went home together, “tho' he didna give in tae the end.”
“A' doot a' wes a wee hard on him, Jamie”—Archie had the tenderest heart in the Glen and was much loved—“but there wes nae man a' like't better.”
“Yer tongue wes naithin' tae mine, Airchie, when a' yoke't on him, but he bore nae ill will, did Posty, he had an awfu' respeck for ye an' aye spoke o' ye as his freend.”
“Sae a' wes—wha wudna be—he hed a true heart hed Posty, and nae jukery-packery (trickery) aboot him.”
“An' a graund heid tae,” went on Jamie; “there wes naebody in the Glen cud meet him in theology, except maybe Lachlan, and did ye ever hear him say an ill word aboot ony body?”
“Never, Jamie, an' there wes naebody he wesna interested in; the black-edged letters aye burned his fingers—he hated tae deliver them. He wes abody's freend wes Posty,” went on Archie, “an' naebody's enemy.”