“It’s just this,” he said; “it’s an account of a broil in which some of those wild fellows got killed: and among the lot of them that was present, there was one, an Englishman they say--but that’s nothing, for they call us all Englishmen abroad. Our fathers would never have stood it; but what can you do? it’s handiest when all’s said--an Englishman that had been about a ranch, and had been a miner, and had been a coach-driver, and I don’t know all what; but this is his name, ‘Jim Smith, _alias_ Horse-breaking Jim, _alias_ James Jones, _alias_ Bob the Devil, _alias_,’” here he held up his finger to arrest her attention, “‘Robert Ogilvy. It is suspected that the last may be his real name.’” Mrs Ogilvy was incapable of speech. She signed for the paper, raising herself a little in her chair. “That is just all there is: you would not understand the story. I’ve just carefully read it to you. Well, madam, if you will have it.” The old gentleman was much disturbed. He let her take the paper because he could not resist it, and then he went of his own accord and rang the bell. “Will ye bring a little wine, or even a drop of brandy?” he said, going to meet Janet at the door, “if your mistress ever takes it. She has had a bit shock, and she’s not very well.” She had got the paper in her hands. The touch of that real thing brought her back more or less to herself. She sat up and held it to the light, and read it every word. There was more of it than Mr Somerville had read. It was an account of a tumult at which murder had been done--no accident, but cold-blooded murder, and the names given were of men more or less involved. The last of these, perhaps, therefore, the least guilty, was this man of many names, Robert Ogilvy--oh, to see it there in such a record! The bonnie name, all breathing of youth and cheerful life, with the face of the fresh boy looking at her through it!--Robbie, her Robbie, _alias_ Jim, _alias_ Bob, _alias_---- She clasped her hands together with the paper between them, and “O Lord God!” she said, in tones wrung out of her very heart. “Just swallow this, swallow this, my dear lady; it will give you strength. She has had a bit shock. She will be better, better directly. Just do everything you can for her, like a good woman. I was perhaps rash. But she’ll soon come to herself.” “I am myself, Mr Somerville, I am not needing any of your brandy. I cannot bide the smell of it. Janet, take it way. I have got some news that I will tell you after. Mr Somerville, I will have to take time to think of it. I cannot get it into my mind all at once.” “No, no,” he said, soothingly, “it was not to be expected. I was too rash. I should have broken it to you more gently: a wee drop of wine, if you will not have the brandy?--though good spirit is always the best.” “I want nothing,” she said; “just give me a moment to think.” And then out of that bitterness of death there came a low cry--“Oh, his bonnie name, his bonnie name!”