Than a white stone heavy upon the plain.

Hark the cock crows loud!
And without, all ghastly and ill,
Like a man uplift in his shroud,
The white white morn is propped on the hill;
And adown from the eaves, pointed and chill,
The icicles 'gin to glitter;
And the birds with a warble short and shrill,
Pass by the chamber-window still--
With a quick uneasy twitter.
Let me pump warm blood, for the cold is bitter;
And wearily, wearily, one by one,
Men awake with the weary sun.

Life is a phantom shut in thee;
I am the master and keep the key;
So let me toss thee the days of old,
Crimson and orange and green and gold;
So let me fill thee yet again
With a rush of dreams from my spout amain;
For all is mine; all is my own;
Toss the purple fountain high!
The breast of man is a vat of stone;
And I am alive, I, only I.

Robert having read, sat and wept in silence. Ericson saw him, and said
tenderly,

'Robert, my boy, I'm not always so bad as that. Read this one--though
I never feel like it now. Perhaps it may come again some day, though. I
may once more deceive myself and be happy.'

'Dinna say that, Mr. Ericson. That's waur than despair. That's flat
unbelief. Ye no more ken that ye're deceivin' yersel' than ye ken that
ye're no doin' 't.'

Ericson did not reply; and Robert read the following sonnet aloud,
feeling his way delicately through its mazes:--

Lie down upon the ground, thou hopeless one!
Press thy face in the grass, and do not speak.
Dost feel the green globe whirl? Seven times a week
Climbeth she out of darkness to the sun,
Which is her god; seven times she doth not shun
Awful eclipse, laying her patient cheek
Upon a pillow ghost-beset with shriek
Of voices utterless which rave and run
Through all the star-penumbra, craving light
And tidings of the dawn from East and West.
Calmly she sleepeth, and her sleep is blest
With heavenly visions, and the joy of Night
Treading aloft with moons. Nor hath she fright
Though cloudy tempests beat upon her breast.

Ericson turned his face to the wall, and Robert withdrew to his own
chamber.

CHAPTER XIII. SHARGAR'S ARM.

Not many weeks passed before Shargar knew Aberdeen better than most
Aberdonians. From the Pier-head to the Rubislaw Road, he knew, if not
every court, y