safe at home with her parents. In vain they tried to persuade him
to go back with them, promising every protection: for sole answer he
shook his head mournfully.

There came a sudden gust of wind among the branches. Joseph, little
used to trees and their ways with the wind, turned toward the sound,
and Malcolm unconsciously followed his movement. When they turned
again the laird had vanished, and they took their way homeward in
sadness.

What passed next with the laird can be but conjectured. It came to be
well enough known afterward where he had been hiding; and had it not
been dusk as they came down the river-bank the two men might, looking
up to the bridge from below, have had it suggested to them. For in the
half-spandrel wall between the first arch and the bank they might
have spied a small window looking down on the sullen, silent gloom,
foam-flecked with past commotion, that crept languidly away from
beneath. It belonged to a little vaulted chamber in the bridge,
devised by some vanished lord as a kind of summer-house--long
neglected, but having in it yet a mouldering table, a broken chair
or two and a rough bench. A little path led steep from the end of
the parapet down to its hidden door. It was now used only by the
game-keepers for traps and fishing-gear and odds and ends of things,
and was generally supposed to be locked up. The laird had, however,
found it open, and his refuge in it had been connived at by one of the
men, who, as they heard afterward, had given him the key and assisted
him in carrying out a plan he had devised for barricading the door.
It was from this place he had so suddenly risen at the call of Blue
Peter, and to it he had as suddenly withdrawn again--to pass in
silence and loneliness through his last purgatorial pain.[1]