"Never," he said abruptly.
"Ye may be thankful; 'tis a terrible place. The skies like brass abune your head; the grund like parchment under your feet. I was a lost man amang those deserts once. Four days I wandered through dry and thirsty places. Eh, sirs, 'twas a terrible time! But the Lord brought me through; thanks be to His holy name!"
Gray did not speak. The old man's words had called up in clear vision those endless deserts of scorched sand, where the very herbage was hateful to look upon, and the blessed light became a consuming fire. Had Harding, faint with his wounds, wandered helplessly there till he fell to rise no more?
M'Pherson got up and reached down the great Bible that lay by itself on the shelf above his head.
"'Tis time for evening worship, my lad. I'll read ye a chapter."
He sat down and placed the Bible on the table, and put on his silver-rimmed spectacles. Gray leant back in his chair and folded his arms, and prepared himself to listen. The old man looked at his face, and then turned over the leaves of his Bible with a sigh.
"I'll read ye what has often been a comfort to me, my lad," he said.
But Gray's eyes had fallen on the sheepdog, and he had seen it drag itself up, with ears upraised and head pointed at the door, in the very attitude of Watch that night the fugitive Dearing had been outside the hut.
"Look at the dog!" he stammered out to M'Pherson. "He hears someone outside the house."
"That's verra onlikely," said M'Pherson with a calmness that was intensely irritating to Gray.