"Whisky," he said, with immense satisfaction.
     "I see," I said cautiously.  "A lot of it?"
     He shook his head slowly from side to side, as though it were very heavy.  I could almost hear the contents sloshing.
     "Not me, " he said, very distinctly. "You."
    "Me?"  I said indignantly.
    "Your eyes," he said.  He smiled beatifically. 
His own eyes were soft and dreamy, cloudy as a trout pool in the rain.
    "My eyes?  What do my eyes got to do with . . ."
    "They're the color of verra fine whisky, wi' the sun shining through them from behind.  I thought this morning they looked like sherry, but I was wrong.  Not sherry.  Not brandy.  It's whisky.  That's what it is."  He looked so gratified as he said theis that I couldn't help laughing.
    "Jamie, you're terribly drunk.  What have you been doing?"
    His expression altered to a slight frown.
    "I'm not drunk."
    "Oh, no?"  I laid the mending aside and came over to lay a hand on his forehead.  It was cool and damp, though his face was flushed.  He at once put his arms about my waist and pulled me close, nuzzling affectionately at my bosom.  The smell of mingled spirits rose from him like a fog, so thick as to almost be visible.
    "Come here to me, Sassenach," he murmured.  "My whisky-eyed lass, my love.  Let me take ye to bed."
    I thought it a debatable point as to who was likely to be taking whom to bed, but didn't argue.  It didn't matter why he thought he was going to bed, after all, provided he got there.  I bent and got a shoulder under his armpit to help him up, but he leaned away, rising slowly and majestically under his own power.
    "I dinna need help." he said, reaching for the cord at the neck of his shirt.  "I told ye, I'm not drunk."
    "You're right, " I said.  " 'Drunk'  isn't anywhere near near sufficient to describe your current state.  Jamie, you're completely pissed."
    His eyes traveled down the front of his kilt, across the floor, and up the front of my gown.
    "No, I'm not," he said, with great dignity.  "I did that outside."  He took a step toward me, glowing with ardor.  "Come here to me, Sassenach; I'm ready."
    I thought "ready" was a bit of an overstatement in one regard; he'd gotten his buttons half undone, and his shirt hung askew on his shoulders, but that was as far as he was likely to make it unaided.
    In other respects, though . . . the broad expanse of his chest was exposed, showing the small hollow in the center where I was accustomed to resting my chin, and the small curly hairs sprang up joyous around his nipples.  He saw me looking at him, and reached for one of my hands, clasping it to his breast.  He was startlingly warm, and I moved instinctively toward him.  The other arm swept round me and he bent to kiss me.  He made such a thorough job of it that I felt mildly intoxicated, merely from sharing his breath.
    "All right," I said, laughing.  "If you're ready, so am I.  Let me undress you first, though--I've had enough mending today."
    He stood still as I stripped him, scarcely moving.  He didn't move, either, as I attended my own clothes and turned down the bed.
    I climbed in and turned to look at him, ruddy and manificent in the sunset glow.  He was finely made as a Greek statue, long nosed and high cheeked as a profile on a Roman coin.  The wide soft mouth was set in a dreamy smile, and the slanted eys looked far away.  He was perfectly immobile.
    I viewed him with some concern.
    "Jamie," I said, "how, exactly, do you decide whether you're drunk?"
    Arroused by my voice, he swayed alarmingly to one side, but caught himself on the edge of the mantelpiece.  His eyes drifted around the room, then fixed on my face.  For an instant, they blazed clear and pellucid with intelligence.
    "Och, easy, Sassenach.  If ye can stand up, you're not drunk."   He let go of the mantelpiece, took a step toward me, and crumpled slowly onto the hearth, eyes blank, and a wide sweet smile on his dreaming face.
    "Oh," I said.

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     "Good morning."
     "That, Sassenach, is entirely a matter of opinion," he said, and closed both eyes again.
    "Have you got any idea how much youweigh?"  I asked conversationally.
    "No."
    The abruptness of the reply suggested that he not only didn't know, he didn't care, but I persisted in my efforts.
    "Something around fifteen stone, I make it.  About as much as a good-sized boar.  Unfortunately, I didn't have any beaters to hang you upside down from a spear and carry you home to the smoking shed."
    One eye opened again, and looked consideringly at me, then at the hearthstone on the far side of the room.  One corner of his mouth lifted in a reluctant smile.
    "How did you get me in bed?"
    "I didn't.  I couldn't budge you, so I just laid a quilt over you and left you on the hearth.  You came to life and crawled in under your own power, somewhere in the middle of the night."
    He seemed surprised, and opened the other eye again.
    "I did?"
    I nodded and tried to smooth down the hair that spiked out over his left ear.
    "Oh, yes.  Very single-minded, you were."
    "Single-minded?"  He frowned, thinking, and stretched, thrusting his arms up over his head.  Then looked startled.
    "No.  I couldn't have."
    "Yes, you could.  Twice."

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