In his own house as he was, a sense of fierce desolation, of foreign invasion and siege, took possession of the soul of the laird.

He had made a huge fire, and had heaped up beside it great store of fuel, but, though his body was warm and likely to be warm, his soul inside it felt the ravaging cold outside--remorseless, and full of mock, the ghastly power of negation and unmaking.

He had got together all the screens he could find, and with them inclosed the fireplace, so that they sat in a citadel within a fortress.

By the fire he had placed for his lordship the antique brocade-covered sofa, that he might lie down when he pleased, and himself occupied the great chair on the other side.

From the centre of this fire-defended heart, the room itself outside looked cold and waste: it demanded almost courage to leave the stockade of the screens, and venture into the campaign of the floor beyond.