But Charles, with his eyes intently fixed on some object in the street, gazed as if some horrible apparition had met his sight. Alternately flushed and pale, he continued as if entranced, and then, deeply sighing, sunk senseless on the floor.
“Rory, Rory!” screamed the laird—“ugh, ugh! oh, that I could get at the bell! Cheer up, Chairlie. Fire! fire! ugh, ugh!—the lad will be dead before a soul comes near him. Rory, Rory!”
And luckily the ancient henchman, Rory MacTaggart, made his appearance in time to save his master from choking through fear and surprise. Charlie was soon recovered, and, when left again alone with the laird, he said—
“As I hope to live, I saw her from this very window, just as we were speaking of her. Even her face I saw! Oh, so changed and pale! But her walk—no two can have such a graceful carriage!”
“Seen wha?” said the laird. “Mrs Carmichael? For it was her we were speaking o’—ay, she’s sair changed; and her walk is weel kent; only I thocht she was a wee stiffer frae the rheumatism last year. But whaur is she?”
“It was Miss Mowbray I saw. She went into that house opposite.”
“What! the house wi’ the brass knocker, green door—the verandah with the flower-pots, an’ twa dead geraniums?”
“Yes.”
“Then just ring the bell, and tell that English cratur to pu’ me in the wee whirligig across the street.”
“Impossible, my dear laird! recollect your gout.”