The Concealed Path
The woman was hardly gone before the old man slipped over to Abner's chair.
"Mon," he whispered, "ha'e ye a wee drop?"
"No liquor, MacPherson," said my uncle.
The old man's bleared eyes blinked like a half-blinded owl's.
"It would be gran', a wee drop, the night," he said.
"For joy at the wedding," said my uncle.
"Na, mon, na, mon!" Then he looked swiftly around.
"The eagle ha beak and talons, and what ha the dove, mon?"
"What do you mean, MacPherson?" said my uncle.
The old creature peered across the table.
"Ye ha gran' shoulders, mon," he said.
My uncle put down his fork.
"MacPherson," he said, "what do you beat about?"
"I wa borned," he replied, "wi a cowl, and I can see!"
"And what do you see?" inquired Abner.
"A vulture flying," said the old man, "but it is unco dark beneath him."
Again on this night every motion and every sign of motion disappeared from my uncle's body and his face. He remained for a moment like a figure cut in wood.
"A vulture!" he echoed.
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