He came towards her slowly, examining his finger, on which she saw a drop of blood; then enveloping it leisurely in the handkerchief which he took from his pocket, “I’ve got a devil of a prick from that dashed holly,” he said. And then she saw that he was not her son. Taller, straighter, of a colourless fairness, a strange voice, a strange aspect. Not Robbie, not Robbie! whoever he was. CHAPTER XIII. For a moment Mrs Ogilvy’s heart sank within her. There was something in the moment, in the hour, in that sudden appearance like a ghost, only with a noise and energy which were not ghost-like, of this man whom at the first glance she had taken for Robbie, which chilled her blood. Then she reminded herself that a similar incident had befallen her before now. A tramp had more than once made his way into the garden, and, but for her own lion mien, and her call upon Andrew, might have robbed the house or done some other unspeakable harm. It was chiefly her own aspect as of a queen, protected by unseen battalions, and only conscious of the extraordinary temerity of the intruder, that had gained her the victory. She had not felt then as she felt now: the danger had only quickened her blood, not chilled it. She had been dauntless as she looked: but now a secret horror stole her strength away. “I think,” she said, with a little catching of the breath, “you have made a mistake. This is no public place, it is my garden; but if you have strayed from the road, I will cry upon my man to show you the right way--to Edinburgh, or wherever you may be going.” “Edinburgh’s not good for my health. I like your garden,” he said, strolling easily towards her; “but look here, mother, give me something for my scratch. I’ve got a thorn in my hand.” “You will just go away, sir,” said Mrs Ogilvy. “Whoever you may be, I permit no visitor here at this late hour of the night. I will cry upon my man.” “I’m glad you’ve got a man about the place,” said the stranger, sitting down calmly upon the bench and regarding her little figure as she stood before him, with an air half of mockery, half of kindness. “It’s a little lonely for an old lady. But then you’re all settled and civilised here. None the better for that,” he continued, easily; “snakes in the grass, thieves behind the door.” “I have told you, sir,” said Mrs Ogilvy, trembling more and more, yet holding her ground, “that I let nobody come in here, at this hour. You look like--like a gentleman:” her voice trembled on the noiseless colourless air, in which there was not a breath to disturb anything: “you will therefore not, I am sure, do anything to disturb a woman--who lives alone, but for her faithful servants--at this hour of the night.”