in Robert's heart, not for Flodden, not for
himself, but for the debased nature that drew forth the plaint. Comrades
in misery, why should they part? What right had he to forsake an old
friend and benefactor because he himself was unhappy? He would go and
see him the very next night. And he would make friends once more with
the much 'suffering instrument' he had so wrongfully despised.

CHAPTER II. THE STROKE.

The following night, he left his books on the table, and the house
itself behind him, and sped like a grayhound to Dooble Sanny's shop,
lifted the latch, and entered.

By the light of a single dip set on a chair, he saw the shoemaker seated
on his stool, one hand lying on the lap of his leathern apron, his other
hand hanging down by his side, and the fiddle on the ground at his feet.
His wife stood behind him, wiping her eyes with her blue apron. Through
all its accumulated dirt, the face of the soutar looked ghastly, and
they were eyes of despair that he lifted to the face of the youth as
he stood holding the latch in his hand. Mrs. Alexander moved towards
Robert, drew him in, and gently closed the door behind him, resuming her
station like a sculptured mourner behind her motionless husband.

'What on airth's the maitter wi' ye, Sandy?' said Robert.

'Eh, Robert!' returned the shoemaker, and a tone of affection tinged the
mournfulness with which he uttered the strange words--'eh, Robert! the
Almichty will gang his ain gait, and I'm in his grup noo.'

'He's had a stroke,' said his wife, without removing her apron from her
eyes.

'I hae gotten my pecks (blows),' resumed the soutar, in a despairing
voice, which gave yet more effect to the fantastic eccentricity of
conscience which from the midst of so many grave faults chose such a one
as especially bringing the divine displeasure upon him: 'I hae gotten my
pecks for cryin' doon my ain auld wife to set up your bonny leddy. The
tane's gane a' to aise an' stew (ashes and dust), an' frae the tither,'
he went on, looking down on the violin at his feet as if it had been
something dead in its youth--'an' frae the tither I canna draw a cheep,
for my richt han' has forgotten her cunnin' Man, Robert, I canna lift it
frae my side.'

'Ye maun gang to yer bed,' said Robert, greatly concerned.

'Ow, ay, I maun gang to my bed, and syne to the kirkyaird, and syne to
hell, I ken that weel eneuch. Robert, I lea my fiddle to you. Be guid to
the auld wife, man--better