DOI article:
Buchan, John: At the article of death
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.25498#0278
At the Article of Death
274
might have guessed the opposite from his mighty frame. His
folk had all been short-lived, and already his was the age of his
father at his death. Such a fact might have warned him to
circumspection; but he took little heed till that night in the
March before, when, coming up the Little Muneraw and breathing
hard, a chill wind on the summit cut him to the bone. He rose
the next morn, shaking like a leaf, and then for weeks he lay ill
in bed, while a younger shepherd from the next sheep-farm did
his work on the hill. In the early summer he rose a broken man,
without strength or nerve, and always oppressed with an ominous
sinking in the chest; but he toiled through his duties, and told no
man his sorrow. The summer was parchingly hot, and the hill-
sides grew brown and dry as ashes. Often as he laboured up the
interminable ridges, he found himself sickening at heart with a
poignant regret. These were the places where once he had strode
so freely with the crisp air cool on his forehead. Now he had
no eye for the pastoral loveliness, no ear for the witch-song of
the desert. When he reached a summit, it was only to fall
panting, and when he came home at nightfall he sank wearily on
a seat.
And so through the lingering summer the year waned to an
autumn of storm. Now his malady seemed nearing its end. He
had seen no man’s face for a week, for long miles of moor severed
him from a homestead. He could scarce struggle from his bed by
mid-day, and his daily round of the hill was gone through with
tottering feet. The time would soon come for drawing the ewes
and driving them to the Gladsmuir market. If he could but hold
on till the word came, he might yet have speech of a fellow man,
and bequeath his duties to another. But if he died first, the
charge would wander uncared for, while he himself would lie in
that lonely cot till such time as the lowland farmer sent the
messenger.
274
might have guessed the opposite from his mighty frame. His
folk had all been short-lived, and already his was the age of his
father at his death. Such a fact might have warned him to
circumspection; but he took little heed till that night in the
March before, when, coming up the Little Muneraw and breathing
hard, a chill wind on the summit cut him to the bone. He rose
the next morn, shaking like a leaf, and then for weeks he lay ill
in bed, while a younger shepherd from the next sheep-farm did
his work on the hill. In the early summer he rose a broken man,
without strength or nerve, and always oppressed with an ominous
sinking in the chest; but he toiled through his duties, and told no
man his sorrow. The summer was parchingly hot, and the hill-
sides grew brown and dry as ashes. Often as he laboured up the
interminable ridges, he found himself sickening at heart with a
poignant regret. These were the places where once he had strode
so freely with the crisp air cool on his forehead. Now he had
no eye for the pastoral loveliness, no ear for the witch-song of
the desert. When he reached a summit, it was only to fall
panting, and when he came home at nightfall he sank wearily on
a seat.
And so through the lingering summer the year waned to an
autumn of storm. Now his malady seemed nearing its end. He
had seen no man’s face for a week, for long miles of moor severed
him from a homestead. He could scarce struggle from his bed by
mid-day, and his daily round of the hill was gone through with
tottering feet. The time would soon come for drawing the ewes
and driving them to the Gladsmuir market. If he could but hold
on till the word came, he might yet have speech of a fellow man,
and bequeath his duties to another. But if he died first, the
charge would wander uncared for, while he himself would lie in
that lonely cot till such time as the lowland farmer sent the
messenger.