’But not too late for reparation!’ cried the poet, eagerly. ’Does your heart not warm again to that wronged lassie? ’Od, my own blood, that runs like ice in these congealing veins, leaps at the thought of her! I cannot get to her—I’ll never see her face again—for earth will be upon these eyes, and the great darkness.... But I will bless her with the blessing of the dying—’tis all I have.... But you, sir—you—you have a horse, you’ve health and strength and time—a heart, I’d hope ... surely you will go to her—fly to her—losing not a day!’ ’After a few hours’ reflection,’ said Herries, with a consciously exaggerated coldness, ’I shall be the better judge of how to act. In the meantime, although I do not doubt your statement, I should like proof positive that your memory does not play you false.’ ’Most noble judge!’ said Burns, with bitter irony, ’it shall be yours! The sacred pages of my Clarinda’s letters will be proof-positive enough in all conscience, and you shall see them. They are safe with you. I’ll have the packet searched for, and to-morrow, if you will trouble to call, it shall be delivered to your hands.’ ’To-morrow,’ said Herries, ’I shall be absent at B—— on the Duke’s business, and perhaps for two days; but on my return I will do myself the honour to call.’ ’I may not be here,’ said Burns, significantly. ’But, no matter, the letters will be ready.’ He paused. The two men looked at each other in silence—antipathetic to the last—across a gulf of mutual misunderstanding, that not years of speech or explanation could have bridged over. The ardent and impulsive temperament of Burns might indeed have leapt the chasm, and he longed even now for a reconciliation with the man he had wronged—a reconciliation with warm, heartfelt words, and a clasp of the hand. But to Herries, hedged about with the prejudices of a lifetime—to Herries, just, but cold—even the semblance of reconciliation was impossible. It was Burns who spoke next, in a gentler voice, and with a kindly shrewdness in his eyes. ’How well it would be, sir,’ he said, ’could nature sometimes mix her handiwork! Had I, now, some of your excellent qualities of judgment and coolness, how much more wisely should I have waged the war of life! And you, methinks, might be a little better for a few drops of the hot blood that has been the plague of me all my days. But we are as God made us, and the Devil spoiled us, and to make or mar is seemingly little in our own power.’ The poet’s voice had become fainter, and the excitement which had upheld him throughout the interview began to wane. His excessive weakness became apparent, as he leaned back against the pillows, with closing eyes. Herries came nearer to him for the first time.