He was as pale as death. The bookseller
got a chair, and he sank into it. Robert was almost at his wit's
end. There was no such thing as a cab in Aberdeen for years and
years after the date of my story. He was holding a glass of water
to Ericson's lips,--when he heard his name, in a low earnest
whisper, from the door. There, round the door-cheek, peered the
white face and red head of Shargar.
'Robert! Robert!' said Shargar.
'I hear ye,' returned Robert coolly: he was too anxious to be
surprised at anything. 'Haud yer tongue. I'll come to ye in a
minute.'
Ericson recovered a little, refused the whisky offered by the
bookseller, rose, and staggered out.
'If I were only home!' he said. 'But where is home?'
'We'll try to mak ane,' returned Robert. 'Tak a haud o' me. Lay yer
weicht upo' me.--Gin it warna for yer len'th, I cud cairry ye weel
eneuch. Whaur's that Shargar?' he muttered to himself, looking up
and down the gloomy street.
But no Shargar was to be seen. Robert peered in vain into every
dark court they crept past, till at length he all but came to the
conclusion that Shargar was only 'fantastical.'
When they had reached the hollow, and were crossing then
canal-bridge by Mount Hooly, Ericson's strength again failed him,
and again he leaned upon the bridge. Nor had he leaned long before
Robert found that he had fainted. In desperation he began to hoist
the tall form upon his back, when he heard the quick step of a
runner behind him and the words--
'Gie 'im to me, Robert; gie 'im to me.
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