Or he saw firelight in the keep and knew that Alexander walked to and fro, to and fro, or sat bowed over a book.

Late at night, waking, he saw that Glenfernie still watched.
It was not Ian Rullock nor anything to do with him that had helped on this sharp alteration, this turn into some Cimmerian stretch of the mind's or the emotions' vast landscape.

If Strickland had at first wondered if this might be the case, the thought vanished.

Glenfernie, free to speak of Ian, spoke freely, with the relief of there, at least, a sunny day.

It somewhat amazed and disquieted, even while it touched, the older man of quiet passions and even ways, the old strength of this friendship.