III

A FIGHT WITH DEATH


When Drumsheugh's grieve was brought to the gates of death by fever,
caught, as was supposed, on an adventurous visit to Glasgow, the London
doctor at Lord Kilspindie's shooting lodge looked in on his way from the
moor, and declared it impossible for Saunders to live through the night.

"I give him six hours, more or less; it is only a question of time,"
said the oracle, buttoning his gloves and getting into the brake;
"tell your parish doctor that I was sorry not to have met him."

Bell heard this verdict from behind the door, and gave way utterly,
but Drumsheugh declined to accept it as final, and devoted himself to
consolation.

"Dinna greet like that, Bell wumman, sae lang as Saunders is still
living'; a'll never give up houp, for ma pairt, till oor ain man says
the word.

"A' the doctors in the land dinna ken as muckle aboot us as Weelum
MacLure, an' he's ill tae beat when he's trying tae save a man's life."

MacLure, on his coming, would say nothing, either weal or woe, till he
had examined Saunders. Suddenly his face turned into iron before their
eyes, and he looked like one encountering a merciless foe. For there was
a feud between MacLure and a certain mighty power which had lasted for
forty years in Drumtochty.