I was tired and I slept profoundly, but somewhere in the sleep I
saw my uncle and a priest of Tibet gibbering over a ladle of
molten silver.
It was nearly midday when I awoke. The whole world had changed
as under some enchantment; there was brilliant sun and afresh
stimulating air with the salt breath of the sea in it. Old
Andrew gave me some breakfast and a message.
His manner like everything else seemed to have undergone some
transformation. He was silent and, I thought, evasive. He
repeated the message without comment, as though he had committed
it to memory from an unfamiliar language:
"The master directed me to say that he must make a journey to
Oban. It is urgent business and will not be laid over."
"When does my uncle return," I said.
The old man shifted his weight from one foot to the other; he
looked out through the open window onto the strip of meadow
extending into the loch. Finally he replied:
"The master did not name the hour of his return."
I did not press the interrogation. I felt that there was
something here that the old man was keeping back; but I had an
impression of equal force that he ought to be allowed the run of
his discretion with it.
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