"You're the one man in the world I want to see, Mac. No, I'll take that back; there's one other I want to see worse than you—Culver Rann."
The strange look in his face made old Donald stare.
"Sit down," he said, drawing two chairs close to the table. "There's something to talk about. It was a terribly close shave, wasn't it?"
"An awful close shave, Johnny. As close a shave as ever was."
Still, as if not quite understanding what he saw, old Donald was staring into John's face.
"I'm glad it happened," said Aldous, and his voice became softer. "She loves me, Mac. It all came out when we were in there, and thought we were going to die. Not ten minutes ago the minister was here, and he made us man and wife."
Words of gladness that sprang to the old man's lips were stopped by that strange, cold, tense look in the face of John Aldous.
"And in the last five minutes," continued Aldous, as quietly as before, "I have learned that Mortimer FitzHugh, her husband, is not dead. Is it very remarkable that you do not find me happy, Mac? If you had come a few minutes ago——"
"Oh, my God! Johnny! Johnny!"
MacDonald had pitched forward over the table, and now he bowed his great shaggy head in his hands, and his gaunt shoulders shook as his voice came brokenly through his beard.