The figure by the fire rested there, silent, still, and brooding.

Strickland observed with some wonder its power of long, concentrated thinking.

It sat there, not visibly tense, seemingly relaxed, yet as evidently looking into some place of inner motion, wider and swifter than that of the night world about it.
Strickland tried to read.

The clock hand moved toward midnight.
The laird spoke from the great bed.

"Alexander--" "I am here, father." Alexander rose and went to the sick man's side.
"You slept finely! And here we have food for you, and drops to give you strength--" The laird swallowed the drops and a spoonful or two of broth.