The late sunlight streamed through the open door. Bran, the old hound, basked in it; it wiped the rust from the ancient weapons on the wall and wrote hieroglyphics in among them; it made glow the wine in the glass. Alexander turned in his chair.
"It's near sunset.... Now what, just, did you hear about Ian Rullock's going?"
"We supposed that he would be here through the autumn—certainly until after your return. Then, three days ago, comes Peter Lindsay with the note for you, and word that he was gone. Lindsay thought that he had received letters from great people and had gone to them for a visit."
Alexander spread the missive that had been given him upon the table. "It's short!" He held it so that Strickland might read:
Glenfernie,—Perhaps the leaf is not yet wholly sere. Be that as it may be, I'm leaving Black Hill for a time.
Ian Rullock.
"That's a puzzling billet!" said Alexander. "'Glenfernie—Ian Rullock!'"
"What does he mean by the leaf not dead?"
"That was a figure of speech used between us in regard to a certain thing.... Well, he also has moods! It is my trust that he has not answered to some one's piping that the leaf's not dead! That is the likeliest thing—that he answered and has gone. I'll ride to Black Hill to-morrow." The sun set, twilight passed, candles were lighted. "Have you seen any from White Farm?"
"I walked there from Littlefarm with Robin Greenlaw. Jarvis Barrow was reading Leviticus, looking like a listener in the Plain of Sinai. They expected Gilian home from Aberdeen. They say the harvest everywhere is good."