he eyes. Blake knew no more, except his anguish from the midges.

He expressed his hope to be well enough to go away on Friday; he would
retire to the inn at Scourie, and try to persevere with his literary
work. Mr. Macrae would not hear of this; as, if the miscreants were
captured, Blake alone could have a chance of identifying them. To this
Blake replied that, as long as Mr. Macrae thought that he might be
useful, he was at his service.

To Merton, Blake displayed himself in a new light. He said that he
remembered little of what occurred after he was found at the foot of the
cliff. Probably he was snappish and selfish; he was suffering very much.
His head, indeed, was still bound up, and his face showed how he had
suffered. Merton shook hands with him, and said that he hoped Blake
would forget his own behaviour, for which he was sincerely sorry.

'Oh, the chaff?' said Blake. 'Never mind, I dare say I played the fool.
I have been thinking, when my brain would give me leave, as I lay in bed.
Merton, you are a trifle my senior, and you know the world much better. I
have lived in a writing and painting set, where we talked nonsense till
it went to our heads, and we half believed it. And, to tell you the
truth, the presence of women always sets me off. I am a humbug; I do
_not_ know Gaelic, but I mean to work away at my drama for all that. This
kind of shock against the realities of life sobers a fellow.'

Blake spoke simply, in an unaffected, manly way.

'_Semel in saninivimus omnes_!' said Merton.

'_Nec lusisse pudet_!' said Blake, 'and the rest of it. I know there's a
parallel in the _Greek Anthology_, somewhere. I'll go and get my copy.'

He went into the observatory (they had been sitting on a garden seat
outside), and Merton thought to himself:

'He is not such a bad fellow. Not many of your young poets know anything
but French.'

Blake seemed to have some difficulty in finding his Anthology. At last
he came out with rather a 'carried' look, as the Scots say, rather
excited.

'Here it is,' he said, and handed Merton the little volume, of a
Tauchnitz edition, open at the right page. Merton read the epigram.
'Very neat and good,' he said.

'Now, Merton,' said Blake, 'it is not usual, is it, for ministers of the
Anglican sect to play the spy?'

'What in the world do you mean?' asked Merton. 'Oh, I guess, the Rev.
Mr. Williams! Were you not told that his cure of souls is in Scotland
Yard?