The old man rose. He evidently laboured to speak to the stranger; but other feelings obtained the mastery. He stretched out his hand. He touched Robert Musgrave's—he coldly bowed to him. The blood left his face.
"Father," exclaimed the son, "you are ill. Hath gratitude——" But he paused as he beheld the expression of his father's features. They betrayed anger and agony at the same moment.
"Son," said he, "I would speak with you: that man—that man;" and he pointed to the scholar impatiently, and, beckoning to his son, rose to leave the room.
"Sir," said Musgrave, proudly, "if my presence trouble you, I can withdraw."
"My friend, what mean you?—what means my father?" asked the brother of Bertha, who was, indeed, the same individual that the scholar had rescued.
"I dinna ken," answered Peter Liddle; "but, if Doctor Musgrave go the door, I go to the door too."
The father and the son looked at each other. The glance of the latter sought from the former an explanation.
At that instant the door opened, and the much-talked-of Bertha entered the room.
"Bertha!" exclaimed Musgrave, and stepped forward, as if unconscious of what he did.
"Robert!" she rejoined, clasping her hands together. She started—she fell back; her brother supported her in his arms.