Archie slumbered and waked by turns. We were just beginning to feel the approach of the magnetic dawn when he awoke from an hour's sleep.
"The nicht's near gane," he said, "an' I'll sleep nae mair; for I aye likit to greet the mornin' licht."
We gathered closer, the old childish instinct which drove us to the wharf's very edge when the sails were being hoisted and the anchor weighed.
He beckoned me closer and I bent to catch his words.
"Ye micht gie thae thochts o' mine to the Session gin the maitter comes up again—aboot the hymes, ye ken, aboot hoo they micht be made intil a prayer."
I silently gave the promise.
"An' mair—I dinna forbid ye to sing a bit hyme at the funeral. Let Wullie Allison lift the tune, for he aye keeps the time. Yon Methody's hyme wad dae:
"'Hide me, oh, my Saviour hide
Till the storm of life is past,'
for the wind'll be doon then, I'm hopin'.
"The fowk'll think it strange, for they a' ken my convictions, sae ye'd better close wi' a paraphrase: