It was dusk as he thrust the key into the latch, as he did so staggering against the lintel from sheer weariness. He stood a little while in the passage, shuddering with the oncomings of mortal sickness. Then with flint, steel, and laborious tinder box he coaxed a light for the solitary taper on the hall table. This done, he turned aside into the little sitting-room on the right hand, where he kept his divinity books.
A slight figure came forward to meet him, with upturned face and clasped petitionary hands. The action was a girl's, but the dress and figure were those of a boy. Upon the threshold the minister stopped dead. He thought that this was the first symptom of delirium—he had seen it in so many, and had watched for it in himself.
But the lad still came forward, and laid a hand on his arm. He wore a suit of bottle green with silver buttons, a world too wide for his slim form. Knee breeches and buckled shoes completed his attire. Allan Syme stared wide-eyed, uncomprehending, his hand pressed to his aching brow in the effort to see truly.
"You are not dead. Thank God!" said the boy, in a voice that took him by the throat.
"Who—who are you?" The words came dry and gasping from the minister's parched lips.
"I am Elspeth—do you not know me?"
"Elspeth—Elspeth—why did you come here—and thus?"
"They told me you were dead—and my father locked me up! And—what chance had a girl to pass the guards? They fired at me—see!"
And lifting a wet curl from her brow, she showed a wound.
"Elspeth—Elspeth—what is all this? What have they done to you?"