"Not twenty years, Michael."
"Twenty-foive years it is, an' more, I'm tellin' ye," replied Ould Michael, "an' niver wance did the inimy see the back av me coat or the dust av me heels; an' to think——"
"How long was it, then, you were with Sir Colin?" continued McFarquhar, cunningly.
"Wid Sir Colin? Shure an' didn't I stay wid him all the way from Calcutta to Lucknow an' back? An' didn't I give thim faithful sarvice here for twelve years—the first man that iver handled the mail in the valley? An' here I am, like—like—any common man."
These were the sore spots in his heart. He was shamed before the people of the valleys in whose presence he had stood forth as the representative of a grateful sovereign. His Queen and his country—his glory and pride for all these years—had forgotten him and his years of service and had cast him aside as worthless; and now he was degraded to the ranks of a mere private citizen! No wonder he had hauled down his flag and then, having no interest in life, nothing was left him but Paddy Dougan and the relief of his bad whisky.—Against Jacob Wragge, too, who had supplanted him, his rage burned. He would have his heart's blood yet.
McFarquhar, as he listened, began to realize how deep was the wound his old friend had suffered; but all he could say was, "You will come out with me Michael, and a few weeks out with the dogs will put you right," but Ould Michael was immovable and McFarquhar, bidding me care for him and promising to return next week, rode off much depressed. Before the week was over, however, he was back again with great news and in a state of exaltation.
"The minister is coming," he announced.
"Minister?"
"Ay, he has been with me. The Rev. John Macleod" (or as he made it, "Magleod") "from Inverness—and he is the grand man! He has the gift."
I remembered that he was a highlander and knew well what he meant.