"I hope the alleged danger of this mysterious illness is exaggerated," said Roland, tenderly and anxiously; "and that ere I return to the regiment, I shall see you well and strong—ay, perhaps taking your fences as of old with Bob Buckle at your back."
The old Laird of Ardgowrie smiled sadly, and turned restlessly on his pillow—and a handsome man he was, even in age, with a wonderful likeness to his son, having the same straight nose and mouth clean cut and chiselled, "the prerogative of the highly born," as Lever has it—for Patrick Ruthven belonged to the untitled noblesse of Scotland, the lineage of some of whom stretches far back into the shadowy past.
"I am lying in my last bed save one, Roland," said the sufferer, in low concentrated voice; "we have not all died in our beds, we Ruthvens of that ilk, but it shall be said that all have died with honour except——"
"Except who, father?"
The old man trembled as if with ague, and closed his eyes, as he said hoarsely—
"I cannot tell you—in time you will know all!"
"You have been a good soldier to the Queen, father."
"But a bad servant to her Master."
"Do not speak thus!" said Roland, imploringly.
"The heart knoweth its own bitterness; and I have been bad, evil, wicked—false!"