The fit passed quickly, and he lay quiet. The sticks had meantime
dried, and suddenly they caught fire and blazed up. The laird turned
his face toward the flame; a smile came over it; his eyes opened wide,
and with such an expression of seeing gazed beyond Malcolm that he
turned his in the same direction.

"Eh, the bonny man! The bonny man!" murmured the laird.

But Malcolm saw nothing, and turned again to the laird: his jaw had
fallen, and the light was fading out of his face like the last of a
sunset. He was dead.

Malcolm rang the bell, told the woman who answered it what had taken
place, and hurried from the house, glad at heart that his friend was
at rest.

He had ridden but a short distance when he was overtaken by a boy on a
fast pony, who pulled up as he neared him.

"Whaur are ye for?" asked Malcolm. "I'm gaein' for Mistress Cat'nach,"
answered the boy.

"Gang yer w'ys than, an' dinna haud the deid waitin'," said Malcolm
with a shudder.

The boy cast a look of dismay behind him and galloped off.

The snow still fell and the night was dark. Malcolm spent nearly two
hours on the way, and met the boy returning, who told him that Mrs.
Catanach was not to be found.