Colin and his guardian¹ went on their way in a direction opposite to that in which the Mistress travelled sadly alone. They made all the haste possible out of the cold and boisterous³ weather, to get to sea; which was at once, according to all their hopes, to bring health to the invalid⁴. Lauderdale, who carried his little fortune about him, had been at great pains in dispersing⁵ it over his person; so that, in case of falling among thieves—which, to a man venturing into foreign parts for the first time, seemed but too probable—he might, at least, have a chance of saving some portion of his store. But he was not prepared for the dire² and dreadful malady⁶ which seized him unawares, and made him equally incapable⁷ of taking care of his money and of taking care of Colin. He could not even make out how many days he had lain helpless and useless in what was called the second cabin of the steamer—where the arrangements and the provisions were less luxurious⁹ than in the more expensive quarters. But Lauderdale, under the circumstances, did not believe in comfort; he gave it up as a thing impossible. He fell into a state of utter scepticism as he lay in agonies of sea-sickness on the shelf which represented a bed. “Say nothing to me about getting there,” he said, with as much indignation as he was capable of. “What do you mean by there, callant? As for land, I’m far from sure that there’s such a thing in existence. If there is, we’ll never{204} get to it. It’s an awful thing for a man in his senses to deliver himself up to this idiot of a sea, to be played with like a bairn’s ball. It’s very easy to laugh; if you had been standing¹⁰ on your head, like me, for twenty days in succession—”

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