CHAPTER XXIX
How fares the man on whom good men would look
With eyes where scorn and censure combated,
But that kind Christian love hath taught the lesson—
That they who merit most contempt and hate,
Do most deserve our pity.—
Old Play.
It might have seemed natural that the visit of John Christie should have entirely diverted Nigel's attention from his slumbering companion, and, for a time, such was the immediate effect of the chain of new ideas which the incident introduced; yet, soon after the injured man had departed, Lord Glenvarloch began to think it extraordinary that the boy should have slept so soundly, while they talked loudly in his vicinity. Yet he certainly did not appear to have stirred. Was he well—was he only feigning sleep? He went close to him to make his observations, and perceived that he had wept, and was still weeping, though his eyes were closed. He touched him gently on the shoulder—the boy shrunk from his touch, but did not awake. He pulled him harder, and asked him if he was sleeping.
“Do they waken folk in your country to know whether they are asleep or no?” said the boy, in a peevish tone.
“No, my young sir,” answered Nigel; “but when they weep in the manner you do in your sleep, they awaken them to see what ails them.”
“It signifies little to any one what ails me,” said the boy.
“True,” replied Lord Glenvarloch; “but you knew before you went to sleep how little I could assist you in your difficulties, and you seemed disposed, notwithstanding, to put some confidence in me.”
“If I did, I have changed my mind,” said the lad.
“And what may have occasioned this change of mind, I trow?” said Lord Glenvarloch. “Some men speak through their sleep—perhaps you have the gift of hearing in it?”