All night long, at intervals, the old man moaned, and every now and
then would mutter sentences unintelligible to the laird, but sown
with ugly, sometimes fearful words. In the gray of the morning he
woke.
"Bring me brandy," he cried in a voice of discontent.
The laird rose and went to him. When he saw the face above him, a
horror came upon his--a look like that they found frozen on it.
"Who are you?" he gasped. "Where am I?"
"You came here in the storm last night, my lord," said the laird.
"Cursed place! I never had such horrible dreams in my life. Where
am I--do you hear? Why don't you answer me?"
"You are at Castle Warlock, my lord," replied the laird.
At this he shrieked, and, throwing off the clothes, sprung from the
bed.
"I entreat you, my lord, to lie down again. You were very ill in
the night," expostulated the laird.
"I don't stop another hour in the blasted hole!" roared his guest,
in a fierce quaver. Out of my way you fool! Where's Joan? Tell her
to get up and come directly. I'm off, tell her. I'd as soon go to
bed in the drifts as stop another hour in this abominable old
lime-kiln.
The laird let him rave on: it was useless to oppose him. He flew at
his clothes to dress himself, but his poor old hands trembled with
rage, fear, drink, and eagerness. The laird did his best to help
him, but he seemed nowise recognizant.
"I will get you some hot water, my lord," he said at length, and
was moving towards the door.
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