He had met the priest frequently, during his stay with the Armstrongs; as he entered the room, he was standing by a pallet on which Allan was laid, while a very old woman was attending to a decoction that was boiling over the fire.
"Is there any hope, father ?" "I know not," the priest replied, shaking his head sorrowfully.

"We have stanched the wounds, but his head is well nigh cleft open.

I have some skill in wounds, for they are common enough in this unfortunate country, and I should say that there was no hope; but Meg here, who is noted through the country round for her knowledge in these matters, thinks that it is possible he may yet recover.

She is now making a poultice of herbs that she will lay on the wound; or rather on the wounds, for he has no less than four." "I think that he will live, young master," the old woman said in a quavering, high-pitched voice.

"'Tis hard to kill an Armstrong.