reachin' to me. I'm past that."

"Alec, ye'll wiss to God ye hadna, whan ye come to marry a bonnie
wife."

It was a true but ill-timed argument. Alec flared up wildly.

"Wife!" he cried, "there's no wife for me. Haud oot o' my gait. Dinna
ye see I hae been drinkin'? And I winna be contred."

"Drinkin'!" exclaimed Mr Cupples. "Little ye ken aboot drinkin'. I hae
drunken three times as muckle as you. And gin that be ony argument for
me haudin' oot o' your gait, it's mair argument yet for you to haud oot
o' mine. I sweir to God I winna stan' this ony langer. Ye're to come
hame wi' me frae this mou' o' hell and ugsome (frightful) deith. It
gangs straucht to the everlastin' burnin's. Eh, man! to think nae mair
o' women nor _that_!"

And the brave little man placed himself right between Alec and the
door, which now opened half-way, showing several peering and laughing
faces.

But the opposition of Mr Cupples had increased the action of the
alcohol upon Alec's brain, and he blazed up in a fury at the notion of
being made a laughter to the women. He took one step towards Mr
Cupples, who had restored his hands to his pockets and backed a few
paces towards the door of the house, to guard against Alec's passing
him.

"Haud oot o' my gait, or I'll gar ye," he said fiercely.

"I will not," answered Mr Cupples, and lay senseless on the stones of
the court.

Alec strode into the house, and the door closed behind him.

By slow degrees Mr Cupples came to himself. He was half dead with cold,
and his head was aching frightfully. A pool of blood lay on the stones
already frozen. He crawled on his hands and knees, till he reached a
wall, by which he raised and steadied himself. Feeling along this wall,
he got into the street; but he was so confused and benumbed that if a
watchman had not come up, he would have died on some doorstep. The man
knew him and got him home. He allowed both him and his landlady to
suppose that his condition was the consequence of drink; and so was
helped up to his garret and put to bed.

CHAPTER LXXV.

All the night during which Isie Constable lay dreaming of racks,
pincers, screws, and Alec Forbes, the snow was busy falling outside,
shrouding the world once more; so that next day the child could not get
out upon any pretence. Had she succeeded in escaping from the house,
she might have been lost in the snow, or drowned in the Glamour, over
which there was as yet only a rude temporary br