The hail had ceased, but the wind blew
tremendously. The coach stood upon the bridge like a stranded
vessel, its two lamps holding doubtful battle with the wind, now
flaring out triumphantly, now almost yielding up the ghost. Inside,
the guard was snoring in defiance of the pother o'er his head.
'Hector! Hector!' cried Robert.
'Ay, ay,' answered Hector. 'It's no time to wauken yet.'
'Hae ye nae basket, Hector, wi' something to eat in 't--naething
gaein' to Rothieden 'at a body micht say by yer leave till?'
'Ow! it's you, is 't?' returned Hector, rousing himself. 'Na. Deil
ane. An' gin I had, I daurna gie ye 't.'
'I wad mak free to steal 't, though, an' tak my chance,' said
Robert. 'But ye say ye hae nane?'
'Nane, I tell ye. Ye winna hunger afore the mornin', man.'
'I'll stan' hunger as weel 's you ony day, Hector. It's no for
mysel'. There's Miss St. John.'
'Hoots!' said Hector, peevishly, for he wanted to go to sleep again,
'gang and mak luve till her. Nae lass 'll think o' meat as lang 's
ye do that. That 'll haud her ohn hungert.'
The words were like blasphemy in Robert's ear. He make love to Miss
St. John! He turned from the coach-door in disgust. But there was
no place he knew of where anything could be had, and he must return
empty-handed.
The light of the fire shone through a little hole in the boards that
closed the window. His lamp had gone out, but, guided by that, he
found the road again, and felt his way up the stairs.
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