“But I am sure it would be good for him if he could be persuaded to try it. I should like to try him.”
“Indeed, and you may try. It will be easy enough, for the porridge are still in the pot.”
Kirsty took the pot from the bench, with the remains of the porridge that had been made for supper still in it, set it on the fire, and pouring some water in it, began to stir it vigorously. It was thick and slimy, and altogether a most repulsive-looking mixture, and Mrs. Murray no longer wondered at Macdonald Dubh's distaste for gruel.
“I think I will make some fresh, if you will let me, Kirsty—in the way I make it for the minister, you know.”
Kirsty, by this time, had completely surrendered to Mrs. Murray's guidance, and producing the oatmeal, allowed her to have her way; so that when Macdonald awoke he found Mrs. Murray standing beside him with a bowl of the nicest gruel and a slice of thin dry toast.
He greeted the minister's wife with grave courtesy, drank the gruel, and then lay down again to sleep.
“Will you look at that now?” said Kirsty, amazed at Macdonald Dubh's forbearance. “He would not like to be offending you.”
Then Mrs. Murray besought Kirsty to go and lie down for an hour, which Kirsty very unwillingly agreed to do.
It was not long before Macdonald began to toss and mutter in his sleep, breaking forth now and then into wild cries and curses. He was fighting once more his great fight in the Glengarry line, and beating back LeNoir.
“Back, ye devil! Would ye? Take that, then. Come back, Mack!” Then followed a cry so wild that Ranald awoke and came into the room.