The fire had burned up fairly bright, and showed me the barest room I

think I ever put my eyes on. Half-a-dozen dishes stood upon the shelves;

the table was laid for supper with a bowl of porridge, a horn spoon, and

a cup of small beer. Besides what I have named, there was not another

thing in that great, stone-vaulted, empty chamber but lockfast chests

arranged along the wall and a corner cupboard with a padlock.

As soon as the last chain was up, the man rejoined me. He was a mean,

stooping, narrow-shouldered, clay-faced creature; and his age might have

been anything between fifty and seventy. His nightcap was of flannel,

and so was the nightgown that he wore, instead of coat and waistcoat,

over his ragged shirt. He was long unshaved; but what most distressed

and even daunted me, he would neither take his eyes away from me nor

look me fairly in the face. What he was, whether by trade or birth, was

more than I could fathom; but he seemed most like an old, unprofitable

serving-man, who should have been left in charge of that big house upon

board wages.

"Are ye sharp-set?" he asked, glancing at about the level of my knee.

"Ye can eat that drop parritch?"

I said I feared it was his own supper.

"O," said he, "I can do fine wanting it. I'll take the ale, though, for

it slockens (moistens) my cough." He drank the cup about half out, still

keeping an eye upon me as he drank; and then suddenly held out his hand.

"Let's see the letter," said he.

I told him the letter was for Mr. Balfour; not for him.

"And who do ye think I am?" says he. "Give me Alexander's letter."

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