"He's not of this world," whispered my lord, "neither him nor the black
deil that serves him. I have struck my sword throughout his vitals," he
cried; "I have felt the hilt dirl[12] on his breastbone, and the hot
blood spirt in my very face, time and again, time and again!" he
repeated, with a gesture indescribable. "But he was never dead for,
that," said he, and sighed aloud. "Why should I think he was dead now?
No, not till I see him rotting," says he.

Sir William looked across at me with a long face. Mountain forgot his
wounds, staring and gaping.

"My lord," said I, "I wish you would collect your spirits." But my
throat was so dry, and my own wits so scattered, I could add no more.

"No," says my lord, "it's not to be supposed that he would understand
me. Mackellar does, for he kens all, and has seen him buried before now.
This is a very good servant to me, Sir William, this man Mackellar; he
buried him with his own hands--he and my father--by the light of two
siller candlesticks. The other man is a familiar spirit; he brought him
from Coromandel. I would have told ye this long syne, Sir William, only
it was in the family." These last remarks he made with a kind of
melancholy composure, and his time of aberration seemed to pass away.
"You can ask yourself what it all means," he proceeded. "My brother
falls sick, and dies, and is buried, or so they say; and all seems very
plain. But why did the familiar go back? I think ye must see for
yourself it's a point that wants some clearing."

"I will be at your service, my lord, in half a minute," said Sir
William, rising,--"Mr. Mackellar, two words from you"; and he led me
without the camp, the frost crunching in our steps, the trees standing
at our elbow, hoar with frost, even as on that night in the long
shrubbery. "Of course, this is midsummer madness," said Sir William, as
soon as we were gotten out of hearing.

"Why, certainly," said I. "The man is mad. I think that manifest."

"Shall I seize and bind him?" asked Sir William. "I will upon your
authority. If these are all ravings, that should certainly be done."

I looked down upon the ground, back at the camp, with its bright fires
and the folk watching us, and about me on the woods and mountains; there
was just the one way that I could not look, and that was in Sir
William's face.

"Sir William," said I at last, "I think my lord not sane, and have long
thought him so. But there are degrees in madness; and w