As the light came he found his senses going, and went to his own
room again to get a book that he might keep himself awake by reading
at the window. To his surprise Shargar was gone, and for a moment
he doubted whether he had not been dreaming all that had passed
between them the night before. His plaid was folded up and laid
upon a chair, as if it had been there all night, and his Ainsworth
was on the table. But beside it was the money Shargar had drawn
from his pockets.
About nine o'clock Dr. Anderson arrived, found Ericson not so much
worse as he had expected, comforted Robert, and told him he must go
to bed.
'But I cannot leave Mr. Ericson,' said Robert.
'Let your friend--what's his odd name?--watch him during the day.'
'Shargar, you mean, sir. But that's his nickname. His rale name
they say his mither says, is George Moray--wi' an o an' no a
u-r.--Do you see, sir?' concluded Robert significantly.
'No, I don't,' answered the doctor.
'They say he's a son o' the auld Markis's, that's it. His mither's
a randy wife 'at gangs aboot the country--a gipsy they say. There's
nae doobt aboot her. An' by a' accoonts the father's likly eneuch.'
'And how on earth did you come to have such a questionable
companion?'
'Shargar's as fine a crater as ever God made,' said Robert warmly.
'Ye'll alloo 'at God made him, doctor; though his father an' mither
thochtna muckle aboot him or God either whan they got him atween
them? An' Shargar couldna help it.
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