comer crossed the hall to the chimney, where he stood by the fire,
warming himself and looking wistfully at the old Knight.

He was wrapped in a plaid, black and white, which increased the gray
appearance of the pale sallow face and sad expression of the wearer, a
boy of about seventeen, with soft pensive dark eyes and a sickly
complexion, with that peculiar wistful cast of countenance that is apt to
accompany deformity, though there was no actual malformation apparent,
unless such might be reckoned the slight halt in the gait, and the small
stature of the lad, who was no taller than many boys of twelve or
fourteen. But there was a depth of melancholy in those dark brown eyes,
that went far into the heart of any one who had the power to be touched
with their yearning, appealing, almost piteous gaze, as though their
owner had come into a world that was much too hard for him, and were
looking out in bewilderment and entreaty for some haven of peace.

He had stood for some minutes looking thoughtfully into the fire, and the
sadness of his expression ever deepening, before the old man raised his
face, and said, 'You here, Malcolm? where are the others?'

'Patie and Lily are still on the turret-top, fair Uncle,' returned the
boy. 'It was so cold;' and he shivered again, and seemed as though he
would creep into the fire.

'And the reek?' asked the uncle.

'There is another reek broken out farther west,' replied Malcolm. 'Patie
is sure now that it is as you deemed, Uncle; that it is a cattle-lifting
from Badenoch.'