"Alas!" said Rob, sadly; "I am too old now to be your enemy!"
CHAPTER LVII.
THE CLOSING SCENE.
The health and strength of Rob Roy decayed rapidly after this, and the winter of 1734, with its unusual severity, sorely affected his shattered form. Helpless as a child, he was confined to bed at last by extreme old age rather than illness, at his house of Inverlochluvig.
On an evening towards the end of December he sunk rapidly. Helen, then an aged woman, was his constant attendant, and he requested her to throw open the windows that he might take a last farewell of the sun, then setting in his ruddy splendour, and casting the purple shadows of Ben More far across the snowclad braes of Balquhidder.
In the clear, frosty atmosphere of the winter eve he could hear the cattle lowing in the fold, and the laughter of the children ringing merrily from the adjacent clachan, and both were music to the old man's ear.
"Death is at hand, Helen—close—close!" said he, sadly, to his wife; "I may at times have been harsh—sharp with you."
"Oh, never—never to me, Rob," said she, sobbing heavily.
"If ever so, forgive me!"
"Forgive you, my poor old Rob!" she exclaimed, and threw her arms around him.