“I could not endure Holland afterwards,” continued Logie; “once I had looked on that Spanish hound’s dead body my work was done. I left the Scots Brigade and took service with Russia, and I joined Peter Lacy, who was on his way to fight in Poland. Fighting was all I wanted, and God knows I had it. I did not want to be killed, but to kill. Then I grew weary of that, but I still stayed with Lacy, and followed him to fight the Turks. We outlive trouble in time, Flemington; we outlive it, though we cannot outlive memory. We outlast it—that is a better word. I have outlasted, perhaps outlived. I can turn and look back upon myself as though I were another being. It is only when some chance word or circumstance brings my youth back in detail that I can scarce bear it. You have brought it back, Flemington, and this morning I am face to face with it again.”
“It does not sound as if you had outlived it,” said the young man.
“Life is made of many things,” said James; “whether we have lost our all or not, we have to plough on to the end, and it is best to plough on merrily. Lacy never complained of me as a companion in the long time we were together, for I was on his staff, and I took all that came to me, as I have done always. There were some mad fellows among us, and I was no saner than they! But life is quiet enough here in the year since I came home to my good brother.”
The mention of Lord Balnillo made Flemington start.
“Gad!” he exclaimed, rising, thankful for escape, “and I am to begin the portrait this morning, and have set out none of my colours!”
“And I have gone breakfastless,” said Logie with a smile, “and worse than that, I have spoilt the sunshine for you with my tongue, that should have been silent.”
“No, no!” burst out Flemington rather hoarsely. “Don’t think of that! If you only knew——”
He stood, unable to finish his sentence or to utter one word of comfort without plunging deeper into self-abhorrence.
“I must go,” he stammered. “I must leave you and run.”