Cold water revived Archie again, and he reached the barn with the assistance of the lad, who, better disposed than his mother, cut a bundle of dry heather, which he spread in a corner for his comfort. The woman looked with silent surprise at her undesired guest; she had thought to see a fellow-traveller of different condition in company with the masterful old blackguard in the cart. Her glances and her expressive silence made Wattie uneasy, but there was no help for their plight whilst Flemington could scarcely stand.
The beggar had spent the rest of that day in the barn. He was not suffered to enter the farm, nor was he offered any food; but he had enough store by him from what he had collected in Brechin for his own needs and those of his team. Archie’s only requirement was the bowl of water that his companion had obtained from the boy. He lay alternately dozing and tossing on his pile of heather. His body was chilled for his high boots had been full of the Esk water, and Wattie had hesitated to draw them off, lest he should be unable to get them on again after their soaking.
Night fell on the barn at last. Wattie slept sound, with the yellow cur’s muzzle against his shoulder; but he awoke towards midnight, for Archie’s feverish voice was coming from the corner in which he lay. He inclined his ear, attracted by the recurrent name of Logie which ran through the disconnected babblings, rising again and again like some half-drowned object carried along a swift stream. The darkness made every word seem more distinct.
“Listen to me!” cried Flemington. “Logie! Logie! you do not understand . . . it is safe . . . it is burnt! Nobody shall know it from me. . . . I cannot take your money, Logie . . . I will tell you everything, but you will not understand. . . .”
The beggar was holding his breath.
“I did not guess it was Inchbrayock . . . I thought it would not be Inchbrayock! Logie, I will say nothing . . . but I will tell you all. For God’s sake, Logie, . . . I swear it is true! . . . Listen. . . .”
Skirling Wattie could hear him struggling as though he were fighting for his life.
“Not to Ardguys . . . I cannot go back to Ardguys! I shall never tell . . . never, never tell . . . but I shall know where you are! They shall never know. Ah!” cried Archie, raising his voice like a man in distress calling for help, “it is you, Logie! . . . My God, let me go!”
The beggar dragged himself nearer. The fragment of moon did no more than turn the chinks and cracks of the barn to a dull grey, and he could hardly see the outline of his companion.
The nightmares that were tormenting Archie pointed to something that must have happened before he came by his hurt, and the injury and the chill had produced these light-headed wanderings; there were troubles boiling in his mind that he had kept behind his teeth so long as his tongue was under control. Wattie wondered what was all this talk of Lord Balnillo’s brother. It seemed as if there were some secret between this man, suspected, as he well knew, of being an active rebel, and Flemington. Had it been light, Wattie would have tried to get at the papers that Archie had spoken of as being on him when they met, for these might give him some clue to the mystery. He sat in the dark leaning against the wall of the barn, his arms tightly folded across his great chest, his lips pursed, his gaze bent on the restless figure that he could just distinguish.