“An’ he will be old!” he broke in with tense, swift gesture—“Old before his time, bent and broke! Oh, Lord—” He lifted his gaunt face, “Gi’e him to me! Gi’e him into my hand!” The keen eyes, fixed on something unseen, stared before him. Hope struggled in them—a bitter, disbelieving hope. “Gi’e him into my hand!”—he whispered.... “into my hand!” He bent forward, staring at the vision. Then the face changed subtly. He drew a quick, deep breath.... His head had dropped to his breast.
She bent above him, “Hugh—” She called it to the unseeing eyes—“Hugh!”
He drew back a little dazed. The look in the face broke—“Why, Ellen—woman.” He put his arm almost tenderly about her—“What frighted ye?” he asked.
“Ye ’ll not harm him?” she cried. She leaned against him, her anxious, questioning eyes searching his face.
“I ’ll not harm him,” said the man briefly, “except the Lord deliver him into my hand—I have it for a sign.”
Her Scotch blood thrilled to the vague menace of the words. She pressed closer to him, her thin hands raised to his coat, grasping it on either side. She looked up into his face—“Hugh, ye must forgi’e—ye must e’en—”
“I must e’en do the Lord’s will,” he said sternly. He loosed the clinging hands—“Ye must sleep, Ellen,” he said more gently.
Her hands had dropped. They hung loose at her sides. But her meek eyes were still on his face. “Ye will forgi’e him,” she whispered low, under her breath.
But his face gave no sign that he heard. He put out the lantern and raked together the coals in the stove, covering them carefully with ashes to save the smouldering heat. “Come to bed, Ellen,” he said when it was done, “the bairn is safe. Ye can sleep now.”