A heap of something lay in a corner, watched only by
a long-snuffed candle.
The heap moved, and a voice called out querulously,
'Is that you, Shargar, ye shochlin deevil?'
Falconer's heart leaped. He hesitated no longer, but lifted the
latch and entered. He took up the candle, snuffed it as he best
could, and approached the woman. When the light fell on her face
she sat up, staring wildly with eyes that shunned and sought it.
'Wha are ye that winna lat me dee in peace and quaietness?'
'I'm Robert Falconer.'
'Come to speir efter yer ne'er-do-weel o' a father, I reckon,' she
said.
'Yes,' he answered.
'Wha's that ahin' ye?'
'Naebody's ahin' me,' answered Robert.
'Dinna lee. Wha's that ahin' the door?'
'Naebody. I never tell lees.'
'Whaur's Shargar? What for doesna he come till 's mither?'
'He's hynd awa' ower the seas--a captain o' sodgers.'
'It's a lee. He's an ill-faured scoonrel no to come till 's mither
an' bid her gude-bye, an' her gaein' to hell.'
'Gin ye speir at Christ, he'll tak ye oot o' the verra mou' o' hell,
wuman.'
'Christ! wha's that? Ow, ay! It's him 'at they preach aboot i' the
kirks. Na, na. There's nae gude o' that. There's nae time to
repent noo. I doobt sic repentance as mine wadna gang for muckle
wi' the likes o' him.'
'The likes o' him 's no to be gotten. He cam to save the likes o'
you an' me.'
'The likes o' you an' me! said ye, laddie? There's no like atween
you and me.
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