But Robert would have refused, and would
have been right in refusing to believe with regard to himself what
might be true in regard to most men. He might rise above his grief;
he might learn to contain his grief; but lose it, forget it?--never.
He went to bid Shargar farewell. As soon as he had a glimpse of
what his friend meant, he burst out in an agony of supplication.
'Tak me wi' ye, Robert,' he cried. 'Ye're a gentleman noo. I'll be
yer man. I'll put on a livery coat, an' gang wi' ye. I'll awa' to
Dr. Anderson. He's sure to lat me gang.'
'No, Shargar,' said Robert, 'I can't have you with me. I've come
into trouble, Shargar, and I must fight it out alone.'
'Ay, ay; I ken. Puir Mr. Ericson!'
'There's nothing the matter with Mr. Ericson. Don't ask me any
questions. I've said more to you now than I've said to anybody
besides.'
'That is guid o' you, Robert. But am I never to see ye again?'
'I don't know. Perhaps we may meet some day.'
'Perhaps is nae muckle to say, Robert,' protested Shargar.
'It's more than can be said about everything, Shargar,' returned
Robert, sadly.
'Weel, I maun jist tak it as 't comes,' said Shargar, with a
despairing philosophy derived from the days when his mother thrashed
him. 'But, eh! Robert, gin it had only pleased the Almichty to sen'
me into the warl' in a some respectable kin' o' a fashion!'
'Wi' a chance a' gaein' aboot the country like that curst villain
yer brither, I suppose?' retorted Robert, rousing himself for a
moment.
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