k her
father. As she passed him, the baron took her hand and kissed it. She
might well tremble. Even such contact was terrible. Why? Because there
was no love in it. When the sense of beauty which God had given him
that he might worship, awoke in Lord Rothie, he did not worship, but
devoured, that he might, as he thought, possess! The poison of asps was
under those lips. His kiss was as a kiss from the grave's mouth, for his
throat was an open sepulchre. This was all in the past, reader. Baron
Rothie was a foam-flake of the court of the Prince Regent. There are no
such men now-a-days! It is a shame to speak of such, and therefore they
are not! Decency has gone so far to abolish virtue. Would to God that a
writer could be decent and honest! St. Paul counted it a shame to speak
of some things, and yet he did speak of them--because those to whom he
spoke did them.

Lord Rothie had, in five minutes, so deeply interested Mr. Lindsay in
a question of genealogy, that he begged his lordship to call again in a
few days, when he hoped to have some result of research to communicate.

One of the antiquarian's weaknesses, cause and result both of his
favourite pursuits, was an excessive reverence for rank. Had its claims
been founded on mediated revelation, he could not have honoured it more.
Hence when he communicated to his daughter the name of their visitor,
it was 'with bated breath and whispering humbleness,' which deepened
greatly the impression made upon her by the presence and conversation of
the baron. Mysie was in danger.

Shargar was late that evening, for he had a job that detained him. As he
handed over his money to Robert, he said,

'I saw Black Geordie the nicht again, stan'in' at a back door, an' Jock
Mitchell, upo' Reid Rorie, haudin' him.'

'Wha's Jock Mitchell?' asked Robert.

'My brither Sandy's ill-faured groom,' answered Shargar. 'Whatever
mischeef Sandy's up till, Jock comes in i' the heid or tail o' 't.'

'I wonner what he's up till noo.'

'Faith! nae guid. But I aye like waur to meet Sandy by himsel' upo' that
reekit deevil o' his. Man, it's awfu' whan Black Geordie turns the white
o' 's ee, an' the white o' 's teeth upo' ye. It's a' the white 'at there
is about 'im.'

'Wasna yer brither i' the airmy, Shargar?'

'Ow, 'deed ay. They tell me he was at Watterloo. He's a cornel, or
something like that.'

'Wha tellt ye a' that?'

'My mither whiles,' answered Shargar.

CHAPTER XI. ROBERT'S V