Chapter VIII: Part 8

For a moment I was at a loss. Was he seeking to entrap me into an open declaration of sympathy with the Covenanters; or was he telling the truth? His confession had been an absolutely open one, so open that if my sympathies were with the persecutors he had placed himself completely in my hands. He had looked me straight in the face with one piercing eye as though to read my soul, while the other was half veiled as though to hide his own. But his voice had rung with fervour as he spoke of the lone graves of the hill-men, and I remembered the fight in the wood. He must have spoken the truth; so I took courage and without further delay told him my story. He listened attentively, and when I had finished he said:

"Ay, the auld packman is richt again. I thocht aboot ye last nicht. Man, I can read fowk like a coont on a slate, and I'm richt gled to hear frae your ain lips, what I had already guessed, that you're for the Cause. If I had thocht onything else, I wu'd ha'e held my tongue."

*CHAPTER XXVIII*

*FOR THE SWEET SAKE OF MARY*

When with characteristic self-satisfaction the packman had extolled his own intelligence, he lapsed into silence. As for me, the telling of my tale had reawakened so many sad memories that for a time I sat gazing before me, unable through my tears to see the other side of the road. Hector knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sighed.

"It is," he said, "ane o' the saddest stories I ha'e ever heard. Sic an experience is enough to mak' a man bitter for the rest o' his days. But if Mary was only half o' what you ha'e tellt me she was, that's no' what she wu'd like to see. It's the prood woman she wu'd be if she knew ye were minded to throw in your lot wi' the Cause. What are ye gaun to dae?"

"I am making for England," I answered.

Hector shook his head sadly. "I've noticed the same afore," he said, and paused.

"What have you noticed?" I asked. "I do not understand you."

He looked into the distance, and spoke as though to himself.

"Ay! It's the auld story. Queer but awfu' human. There was Moses and Peter: the ane the meekest o' men, but he lost his temper twice; the ither the bravest and lealest o' the disciples, but he turned coward."

"Explain yourself," I said. "I cannot follow you."

"I mean nae offence, but I thocht ye wad hae been quicker i' the uptak'. D'ye no see that men fail maist often on their strongest point? Man, when a man prides himsel' on his strong points it's time to get down on his knees. Ye tell me ye lo'ed the lass--and nae doot ye did. But ye're turning yer back on love, and rinnin' awa'. I'm surprised at ye. If sic a fate as has befallen Mary were to befa' the widda at Locharbriggs, dae ye think I should rest until I had dune something to avenge her. Mind ye I'm no' counsellin' violence, for I'm a man that loves peace. Bloodshed is the revenge o' the foolish. There are better ways than that, and if ye'll throw your lot in wi' mine, I'll show ye hoo ye can dae something for the sake o' her ye loved and for the cause o' the Covenant." I listened in silence and shame. His words were biting into my heart.

He looked at me with eyes that seemed to peer into the depths of my soul. Then I found speech. "Mary," I said, "was to me the most precious thing in all the world. If you can show me how I can render service to the Cause she loved, I am ready to do your bidding."

He thrust out his right hand: "Put your haun' there," he said; "you've spoken like a man. Dae ye mind what Horace says: '_Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postera._' 'Tak' time by the forelock and never trust to the morn.' A wise word that. Fegs, he was a marvel! In fact he's gey near as fu' o' wisdom as the guid Book itsel'. We'll tak' time by the forelock, and between us, if the Lord wills, we'll dae something for the persecuted hill-folk and strike a blow for Scotland and for liberty. But we'll ha'e to be gettin' on; the day'll no' tarry for us. Let us awa'."

Refreshed by our rest, we rose and took to the road again.

A long descent lay before us and till we had completed it neither of us spoke. But when we reached the foot of the hill Hector suddenly said:

"I've been thinkin' aboot your story. It's wonderfu' what bits o' gossip a packman can pick up on his roonds. Noo, you may be surprised to hear that I kent a' aboot the shootin' o' the minister up on the hills. I heard the story frae a trooper in the inn at Gatehouse. To him it was a great joke, for he saw naething in it but the silly action o' a daft auld man wha's ain stupidity brocht aboot his death. I wonder, if he had kent the hale story as you and me ken it, whether he would ha'e seen the beauty o't. I'm thinkin' maybe no', for to size up a thing like that richtly it maun be in a man's heart to dae the like himsel'. Ay, what a welcome the martyr would get on the ither side!" He paused for a moment, then continued: "And it's queer that I heard aboot you yersel' frae the same trooper. He tellt me that they cam' on the minister quite accidental-like; and that they werena' lookin' for him ava. They were oot on the hills huntin' for a deserter, wha I'm thinkin' was yersel'. They didna find you, he said. As a matter o' fact they believe that ye're deid--he said as muckle. So you may haud yer mind easy, for unless an' ill win' blaws and ye're recognised by ane o' yer fellow-troopers, ye're safe."

We trudged on steadily towards Dumfries. My heart was with Mary, and I did not speak. The packman was silent too--but while I was living in the past he apparently was looking into the future, for he said suddenly:

"It's a dangerous job I'm invitin' ye to tackle--a job that calls for the best wit o' a man, and muckle courage. I'm thinkin' you dinna lack for either, but time will show. Ay: it will that. As for me," he continued, after a pause, "I'm no' a religious man, but hidden in a corner o' my soul I ha'e a wee lamp o' faith. But it doesna aye burn as brichtly as it micht, and mony a time I sit by the roadside and compare the man I wad like to be wi' the man that I ken masel' to be; and it mak's me gey humble. But I aye tak' courage when I think o' Peter. He found the road through life a hard path and he tripped sae often ower the stanes that I sometimes think, like me, he maun ha'e had a tree-leg. But at the end he proved himsel' to be gold richt through, as dootless the Maister kent a' the while." His voice broke, and, looking at him, I saw tears streaming down his cheeks.

"But noo, a word in your ear. We're very near Dumfries noo. We'd better separate there, it will be safer. It behoves ye to ken where ye will fin' a lodgin'.

"In Mitchell's Close at the brig' end there lives a widda woman. She kens me weel. Her door is the second on the left frae the mooth o' the close. Her name is Phemie McBride, and when ye tell her ye're a frien' o' Hector the packman's she'll gie ye a welcome and ask nae questions. We should reach the toon before twa o'clock. You can ha'e bite and sup. I'll leave my pack at my lodgings and syne I'll be awa oot to Locharbriggs to pay my respects to the widda. At six o'clock or thereabouts I'll look for ye at the Toon Heid Port and we'll tak' a walk up the banks o' the Nith thegither. But, a word in yer lug. Dumfries is a stronghold o' the Covenanters; forby it is ane o' the heidquarters o' the persecutors. Lag himsel' has a hoose there--so ye maun be carefu'. Tak' a leaf oot my book, and oot o' the book o' even a wiser man than me--Be all things to all men, and mix neither yer politics nor yer drink. Haud your tongue, and if ye ha'e to speak, keep half yer counsel tae yersel'."

I thanked him and promised to exercise all caution. "And noo," he said, "for appearance' sake, I maun be Hector the packman, again," and going to a cottage by the wayside he knocked loudly at the door. I walked slowly on and in a moment or two he rejoined me.

With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "Trade's bad the day. The guid-wife wanted neither a dream-book nor a pot o' salve. But that reminds me, it's gey near three months sin' I saw the widda. Noo you yersel' ha'e kent the spell o' love. I dinna want to touch ye on a sair spot, but if ye were in my place, what wad ye tak' tae yer sweetheart?"

I had no suggestion to offer, and said so.

"Weel," he said, "that's nae help. I'll juist ha'e a look at the jeweller's window in the High Street. Maybe I'll see something there: but failin' that there's aye a pot o' my balm."

"She will not need any of that," I answered. "Your coming will bring a colour to her cheeks without the aid of your magical salve."

"Man," said Hector, "I like ye. Ye're a lad o' promise; I'll mak' a man o' ye yet."

We were approaching another cottage on the outskirts of the town, and once again Hector assumed the role of the packman and tapped at the door. When he rejoined me he said: "I ha'e had some luck this time, but no' muckle, because a' I sold was a dream-book. Awfu' trash, as ye weel ken." He groaned as though in anguish of spirit. "And noo," he said, "we'd better pairt company. The brig' end o' Dumfries is on this side o' the water."

So we parted, and I walked on ahead, until as I descended a steep hill I saw the end of the bridge before me. I found Mitchell's Close without difficulty and entered it. The houses within it were flinging back the glare of the sun from their whitewashed walls. I knocked at the second door on the left, and after a little it was opened by an old woman. Holding the latch in her hand, she stood between the half-open door and the wall as though to block the passage.

"Wha may ye be?" she said. "Ye ha'ena' a kent face."

"I am," I said, speaking low, "a friend of Hector the packman."

She threw the door wide open at once, saying, "Come awa ben." I entered, and immediately she shut and barred the door behind us, and led the way into the kitchen, saying: "Ony frien' o' Hector the packman is welcome here. Can I get ye onything to eat?"

As I had not broken my fast since leaving New Abbey, I was ready to do justice to the meal which she made haste to spread before me. Remembering Hector's warning, I held my tongue, and as she waited upon me the old woman kept her counsel to herself. I could see that she was studying me closely; and when the meal was over she said, suddenly:

"So ye're a frien' o' Hector's, are ye? Whaur's the man noo?"

"When I left him," I replied, "he was making his way to his own lodging."

"Nae doot, nae doot; and by this time I jalouse he's on the road to Locharbriggs."

I smiled.

"If ye are a frien' o' Hector's," she continued, "ye've nae doot heard aboot the widow at Locharbriggs."

"Oh yes," I said. "She bulks largely in his affections."

The old woman laughed heartily. "She does that, the silly auld man, but he'd better look somewhere else, for she winna ha'e him. I ken her weel; she's my dochter."

*CHAPTER XXIX*

*BESIDE THE NITH*

When the afternoon was mellowing into early evening I stood upon Devorgilla's Bridge watching the river. Much had happened to me since last I was there. I had drunk deep of joy and sorrow; and as I looked down upon the slow-moving water, memory smote me with both hands. I laid my arms upon the parapet of the wall and stood at gaze, but though I looked before me, my mind was wandering backwards across the chequered, love-lit, blood-stained months that lay behind me. The mood passed and my eyes followed the stream as it issued from underneath the dark arches and flowed slowly on until, in the distance, glistening like a silver band, it swept round a bend and was lost to view. To my right, on the brow of a hill, stood a windmill, its great arms aswing with hesitant gait in the wind. Beyond the windmill the hills sloped down to the river, studded here and there by a copse of trees, or the white gable of a cottage flinging back a ray of sunlight. To my left was the town of Dumfries, with the Sands sloping down from the nearer houses to the river, and the stately spire of St. Michael's Church challenging the sky in the near distance. Beyond, rose a pleasant, tree-crowned hill, on whose slopes I could see the figures of sheep and cattle.

There were yet two hours before I had to meet Hector at the Town Head Port, so, crossing the bridge, I made for the Friar's Vennel, which I knew to be the main thoroughfare from the brig-end to the centre of the town. It was a busy artery of traffic, lined upon one side by shops and upon the other by comfortable dwelling-places. Some of the houses had gardens, well-kept and orderly. Here and there, between the houses, was a narrow entry and looking down one of these I discovered that it opened into a little court upon each side of which stood small thatched cottages.

I sauntered up the Vennel, and shortly came to the High Street--a broad and roomy thoroughfare. Each side of it was occupied by shops, well-stocked and prosperous-looking, and in the centre of the street were the booths of market-gardeners and fishermen, who were making a brave display of their wares.

Leaving the booths behind me, I continued my journey up the High Street. By and by I came to a wider portion of the street which the inhabitants know as the Plain Stanes. Here was the house of Lag, and I gazed at it curiously. A couple of soldiers stood at the door, from which I judged that Sir Robert himself was in residence; so, remembering I was a deserter, I did not tarry long, but went on towards St. Michael's Church.

I entered the churchyard and, sitting down under the shadow of one of the gigantic tombstones, I waited until I judged it was time to go and meet Hector.

As I was going out I met a man whom I took to be the grave-digger, and asked him to direct me to the Town Head Port.

"Oh, ye're a stranger in these pairts," he said, as he pointed out the way. I made no answer save to thank him and bid him good evening, and then I hurried in the direction he had indicated.

I found the Port without difficulty and stood just outside it, listening to the cawing of the rooks in the tall trees on the green mound that separated me from the river.

I had not long to wait ere Hector arrived. He slipped his arm through mine, and said:

"Let's awa' doon to the bank o' the water."

He was whistling merrily as we scrambled down the bank, so I judged that the widow had been kind, and ventured to say as much. His only reply was:

"_Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo dulce loquentem._" I asked after her health.

"Oh, she's fine, fine. She was pleased wi' the bonny kaim I took her. Here's a bit o' wisdom for ye, my lad. If ye want to please a woman that ye like, gi'e her some gaud to adorn hersel' wi'. If she's plain and no' weel-faured she'll tak' it as a compliment that ye should wish to mak' her bonnie. If she's bonnie to begin wi', she'll tak' your bit giftie as a proof that ye ha'e noticed wi' your ain een that she's weel-faured and weel-lookin'."

Alas, for me all such joys were things of the dead past.

When we reached the river's edge we walked upstream.

I have not the pen of a poet, nor has the poet yet been born whose pen could paint with fitting words the glory of the shining Nith. Hector says Virgil could have done it; but I wonder. There are beauties beyond the range of words. The eye can drink them in; the soul can interpret them: and as the soul interprets them, so are they revealed to the eye that sees them.

We walked for more than a mile till we came to a lofty eminence, set tree-crowned above the stream. When we had climbed to its summit Hector paused beneath a giant beech tree which stood perilously near the declivity that fell sheer to the river brink. "Look," he said, and pointed down the river. Lit by the rays of the setting sun, it stretched like a ruddy band of bronze into the distance, leading the eye directly to the ruins of the old College of Lincluden with its Gothic window and shattered tower. Beyond, the blue hills raised their brows to the sky, from which, as from a golden chalice, a stream of glory poured.

For each of Nature's pictures there is one divine moment in the day. It was now.

I stood in rapture till Hector touched my arm. "It's bonnie," he said. "I should say ye've naething to match it in England, but we maun awa' hame. Come on," and he led the way across a field to the road. "This," he said, "is the shortest way back to the toon. I ha'e been alang it aince the day already, for it leads tae Locharbriggs, and mair than likely I'll be alang it the morn, for the widda was wonderfu' kind, and though she wouldna exactly gang the length o' namin' the day, she was mair amenable to reason than I've ever kent her afore. So the morn's mornin' I'm makin' my way oot to her again: and maybe I'll be lucky. Ye never can tell, for didna' Virgil himsel' say '_Varium et mutabile semper femina_'--'Woman is a fickle jade onyway ye like to tak' her.' Oh, these auld poets, but they had the wise word every time. Noo that we're comin' near the toon we'd better settle what we are gaun to dae the morn. As for me, I ha'e mony things on haun and my time'll be a' ta'en up. But I'll be free at six o'clock. Ye can spend the day as ye like, and I'll meet ye at that oor at the Vennel Port."

I promised that I should be at the trysting-place at the time appointed.

We were now drawing near the town. By and by we came to the mound known as Christie's Mount, and soon we could see the Plain Stones before us. As we swung round into the lower part of the High Street we heard sounds of revelry coming from Lag's house at the corner of the Turnpike Wynd. We crossed to the other side of the street and looked up. Every window was a blaze of light. From an upper room came the sound of wild voices of men far gone in their cups, and every now and then shouts of laughter. One laugh, a great raucous bellow, dominated all the rest.

"That's Lag himsel'," whispered Hector. "Eh, it's awfu', awfu'. While thae men o' blood are feastin' and drinkin' there, saints o' the Covenant are sleepin' under the cauld sky awa' on the hills."

Suddenly out of the darkness stepped a soldier, who, seeing us gazing up at the house approached, and as he passed scanned us keenly. I nudged the packman with my elbow and at once he led the way up the High Street. He did not speak until we were near the Tolbooth, then he whispered:

"Ay, ye'll min' what I tellt ye; it's true ye've to be carefu' what ye say in the toon o' Dumfries. Dinna forget that. A scarlet-coated loon like yon kens nocht aboot Horace, and he, worthy man, as always, has the richt word for the occasion: '_Redeat miseris, abeat fortuna superbis._' Ye can translate that literally for yersel', but I'll drap my renderin' in yer lug." Putting his mouth close to my ear he whispered: "'May God bless the puir hill-men, and damn Lag and a' his stiff-necked tribe.' Noo a guid nicht tae ye; I'll meet ye the morn at six o'clock at the Vennel Port."

With some difficulty, for it was dark and the streets were ill paved, I betook me down the Vennel, and crossing the river made my way to my lodgings. My sleep was dreamless, and when I awoke in the morning a sparrow was twittering on the sill. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I found the old woman sitting at a well-scrubbed deal table. She had a pair of spectacles on her nose, and on the table beside her lay an open Bible. She did not raise her eyes at my approach, but continued to read in a sibilant whisper, keeping time to the words as she pronounced them by beating the air with her open hand. I waited patiently until her devotions were finished.

"A good morning to you, sir. Ha'e ye sleepit weel?" she asked.

"Thank you," I replied, "none better. I am sorry that I interrupted you in your religious duties."

"Oh, ye didna interrupt me," she said; "besides, readin' the Book is no' a releegious duty, it's a releegious privilege. Belike ye dinna ken the difference. Nae doot that comes frae bein' a frien' o' Hector's--Hector that is aye haverin' oot o' the auld heathen poets. If he kent as muckle aboot the psalms o' a guid Presbyterian like Dauvit as he lets on he kens aboot Horace, it wad, I'm thinkin', be a lot better for his sowl, the silly auld gommeril. Wantin' tae mairry a lassie a quarter o' a century younger than himsel'! Thank God she's got some o' the sense o' her mither. She winna ha'e him! Noo, lad, yer parritch is ready and I'll juist dish them for ye."

When my meal was over I entered into conversation with her again.

She had a caustic tongue and a good deal of quiet humour, and she reminded me in some ways of Jean at Daldowie; and with the thought of Daldowie came memories of my lost love. The mellow hand of the years upon them may impart to our sorrows a fragrance that mitigates their pain, but the wound in my heart was still a recent one, ready to bleed at a touch.

Almost unable to restrain myself, I picked up my bonnet and going out crossed the bridge and came down upon the Sands. Along their length was stretched a number of booths, and the Sands themselves were thronged with people. Apparently it was a market day. Leisurely, as I had nothing else to do, I joined the crowd--buirdly, well-clad farmers; robust looking farm-servants; sturdy farm wenches with large baskets of butter and eggs upon their arms.

On the outskirts of the crowd a sailor, with a bronzed face and great rings depending from his ears, was putting a monkey through a series of antics to the amusement of the young men and women who stood around him in open-mouthed amazement.

When I had grown tired of watching him I made my way to the Vennel Port, and then I walked leisurely through the main streets of the old town. When I came to its outskirts, just beside St. Michael's Church, I bought some food and making my way to the river-side I followed its course downwards. By and by I came to some rising ground, and climbing up made my way through a rocky gorge and sat down on the soft turf beneath an overhanging oak tree.

After a meal, I stretched myself upon my back, and pulling my bonnet over my eyes composed myself to sleep. When I awoke I remembered that I had promised to meet Hector at six o'clock. By the time I had retraced my steps the appointed hour would be at hand. So I descended to the river bank and made my way towards the Vennel Port.

Six o'clock was striking when I reached it, but Hector was not there. Moment succeeded moment and still he did not come. Impatient I began to walk up and down, crossing the Sands to look at the river where fishermen were busy tempting the fish with their flies. I strolled back again to the Vennel and walked up it for a short distance, descending once again to the Port. There was no sign of Hector, and when the clock struck seven and I realised that an hour had elapsed since I had come to the trysting-place, anxiety assailed me. This was not like the packman. Had some mischance befallen him? He had told me that his was dangerous work, and I knew that he spoke the truth. One false step, and he would be undone. At this very moment he might be in grave danger. Ill at ease, I went up to the top of the Vennel, hoping to meet him. My quest was vain! The clock struck eight: he had not yet appeared. As the time dragged on its leaden way I remembered the long pathetic vigil I had shared with Jean at Daldowie, and though the memory stabbed me to the heart, I hugged it to me. The hour of nine struck on the Tolbooth clock; still there was no sign of Hector. Twilight gathered and deepened; the stars stole out, and still he did not come. When another weary hour had passed I decided that it was useless to wait longer, so, at the last stroke of the hour, I crossed the bridge and made for my lodgings in Mitchell's Close. The good woman of the house had not yet retired to rest, and I was fain to partake of the supper which she had prepared for me.

During the meal I said nothing to her of my anxiety. Hector had warned me to be careful in my speech, and, fortunately, she showed no curiosity as to my doings. When supper was over I bade her good night and went to my room. Before undressing and lying down, I looked through the window. It was a quiet summer night. All the world seemed at peace; but some dazed dread was knocking at the door of my heart and I was sore troubled. Something must have happened to Hector--of that there could be little doubt. For a time I lay awake in a maze of anxiety: and it was not till after midnight had boomed from the Tolbooth clock, that languor stole over me and I slept.

*CHAPTER XXX*

*IN THE TIGER'S DEN*

Suddenly I woke, startled. Some noise had disturbed me. I listened intently. Nothing stirred in the house. I sat up in bed, and peered into the darkness, only relieved by the fitful light of the moon stealing through the window. What had wakened me? I waited anxiously; then I heard three little taps, clear and metallic, upon the window. I sprang up and looked out, and saw in the dim-lit courtyard the tall figure of a man, who moved forward when he saw me, and I recognised the wooden leg of Hector. Eagerly I undid the window, swinging it back gently on noiseless hinges, and craned forward into the night. Hector put a hand to his mouth, and whispered, "Wheesht! wheesht!" then walked softly to the door of the house. Hastily throwing on some clothes I crept on tip-toe downstairs, and opening the door admitted him to the kitchen.

With uplifted finger he whispered, "Haste ye, and dinna wake the auld woman. We'll talk on the road." As silently as possible I hastened to my room and finished dressing; then, I rejoined the packman. As I entered the kitchen he was lifting the poker from the fireplace. "She'll understand--that's a sign," he said, as he laid it carefully on the top of the table.

"But what," I whispered, "about paying her?"

"Dinna worry on that score," he said; "she kens me. That's eneuch. There's danger afoot. Come on."

He led the way to the door, which he opened noiselessly and together we passed out into the courtyard.

At the mouth of the close he paused and peered carefully in every direction. Then he turned to me and whispered, "There's naebody aboot." We passed quickly into the street, and, walking close to the houses so that we were in their full shadow, we hurried away.

From the direction we took I judged that our path lay parallel to the course of the river on the side opposite the town of Dumfries. We had walked perhaps a mile before Hector again broke the silence. Still whispering, he said:

"Man, I've had an awfu' day. Horace has the richt word every time: '_Recenti mens trepidat metu_'--'My hert's a' o' a dither wi' fricht.' What's yer name? ye've never tellt me."

For the first time it dawned on me that he did not know my name. He had called me Joseph at the road-end when Dalzell had taken us unawares, but since then the matter had never been mentioned between us. "My name is Walter de Brydde," I said.

"Ay," he said, "but what name was ye kent by when ye were a trooper?"

"I called myself Bryden," I replied.

"That's it. It was you richt enough. Oh, I've had a terrible day. But I had better begin at the beginning, and tell ye the hale story.

"This mornin' I left my lodgings wi' full purpose and intention o' gaun to see the widda. Weel, it's a lang road and a drouthy, so before leavin' the toon I drapped into the Hole i' the Wa', to ha'e a pint o' tippenny. It's a hoose I aye frequent when I'm in Dumfries. Weel, as I was tellin' ye, I was sittin' in the corner, and I'd juist passed the time o' day wi' the landlord, when in daundered twa sodgers. As soon as I saw the sicht o' their coats, my ears were cocked to catch their words. They were talkin' as they cam' in. The ane was sayin' to the ither; 'I could stake my life it was him.' They sat doon and ordered their yill, and went on talkin'. I didna catch a' that they said, but they hadna been talkin' long ere I guessed it was aboot you. I juist got a word noo and again, but I've pit them thegither. They went something like this:

"'Aye, at Wigtown, the nicht efter the women were drooned.'

"'Then what think ye he's daein' here?'

"'Oh, I canna tell that.'

"'I thocht ye had lang syne made up your mind that he had deid on the moors like a braxy sheep. What's this they ca'd him?---- Oh, ay,--Bryden. What mak's you think it was him?'

"'Weel, I saw him yesterday in the High Street. He had a week's growth on his face, and that in itsel' is a disguise, and he walks wi' a limp, which he didna dae when he was wi' us; but what jogged my memory was a wee jerk he gied his shoothers. I couldna mind off-haun' where I had seen it afore. Hooever, an 'oor afterwards when I was thinkin' o' something else, it flashed across me that Bryden used to move his shoother and his left elbow exactly that wey. So says I to masel', that's the man; and I went back to the place where I'd seen him. Of coorse he was there nae langer.'

"'What are ye gaun to dae? Ha'e ye tellt yer Captain yet?"

"'No' me! I'm no' sae saft. I'm keepin' my een open, an' if he's still in Dumfries I'll be comin' across him ere lang and I'll arrest him on suspicion, and tak' him afore Lag himsel'. Man, there's a price on his heid.'

"Weel, I had learned a lot, and I knew it was you they were after, for I ha'e noticed the jerk o' your left elbow tae. So I made up my mind that afore I should gang oot to Locharbriggs I wad slip across to Phemie McBride's and gi'e ye warning. So I finished my yill and paid my score an' set oot.

"Juist as I was aboot to leave the close-mooth, a dragoon clapped me on the shoother and said: "'You're Hector the packman, are ye no?'

"'Ay,' says I. 'What of it?'

"'Weel,' says he, 'ye maun come wi' me. Ye're wanted.'

"'Wanted?' says I. 'Wha wants me?'

"'Sir Robert Grier o' Lag. I've nae doot ye've heard tell o' him.'

"'Ay,' I answered, 'I ken Sir Robert weel. What does he want wi' me?'

"'Come and fin' oot for yoursel',' said he. 'An' ye'd better mak' haste, for if we keep him waitin' there'll be hell to pey. Haste ye!'

"As we hurried doon tae Lag's hoose in the Plain Stanes, I began to wonder if his summons could ha'e onything to dae wi' the little affair you mind in the woods near New Abbey. I'm sayin' nae mair; even the darkness may ha'e ears.

"Weel, by and by we cam' to the hoose at the end o' the Turnpike Wynd, and I went up the stair wi' the trooper. He led me into a room, and we waited there thegither. As we waited I heard Lag's voice comin' frae the next room. He was swearin' in a wey the very deil himsel' couldna' ha'e bettered. He was yellin' like ane possessed for cauld water, and as I stood in the room a wee bit drummer boy cam' rinnin' up the stairs wi' a pail o' water that he had brocht frae the Nith. As he passed through the room where I was standin', it went jaup, jaup, jauppin' on the floor. He knocked at Lag's door and syne went in, and I heard the water being poured into a basin. Then I heard Lag shoutin', 'It's no cauld ava. It's boilin', ye wee deevil! Get awa doon to the water for anither pailfu',' and wi' fear on his face the wee laddie raced through the room as shairp as a hare and clattered doon into the street.

"Weel, I waited wi' the trooper in the antechamber while the oaths frae the other side o' the door cam' thick and fast. I may say I listened wi' a kind o' admiration. Wi' some folk swearin' is naething mair than a bad habit, but wi' Lag it seems to be a fine art. But that's by the way. By and by the sodger that had brocht me took courage and knocked at the door. It was opened by another trooper. The first trooper gave him a message for Lag, and he shut the door and delivered it, for the next thing I heard was Lag shoutin': 'Well, the packman maun juist bide my time. I'm far ower bad to see him the noo!' so his body-servant cam' oot again and tellt the trooper that had me in haun'. He took me awa' doon the stairs to the kitchen where there was a lot mair sodgers. Weel, ye ken, at this I was gey perplexed. Here was I, haeing promised to ca' on the widda in the mornin', held a prisoner. And I had you on my mind as weel, for frae what I heard in the Inn, you were in danger. So I said to my guard:

"'If Sir Robert canna see me the noo, is there ony need for me to bide here? I'll gi'e ye my promise to come back at four o'clock this afternoon, when I hope Sir Robert will be able to see me.'

"'No, no,' said the sodger, 'that winna dae ava. I'm takin' nae risks.'

"Weel, there was nothing for it but that I should stop where I was, though it was sair against the grain. Hooever, they produced a bottle o' 'Solway waters,'[#] and I'm bound to say they didna lack for hospitality. Nothing loth, I took a drappie, and then I took anither, and we began to talk merrily.

[#] Smuggled brandy.

"The mornin' slipped by, and still Lag wasna' ready to see me. Every noo and then the wee drummer laddie raced through the kitchen wi' anither pail o' water frae the Nith, and when he had disappeared wi' the water jaup-jaupping ower the side o' the bucket, the troopers would nudge each other and say 'Guid sakes, his feet maun be in hell already,' and the callousness o' their words would mak' me shiver. Fegs, the Latin has it best: '_Horresco referens_'--'It gies me a grue to think o't.'

"By and by the clock struck one and we had oor dinner thegither. I'm bound to say that if the troopers' 'Solway waters' was guid, the victuals were likewise o' excellent quality, and I made a guid meal. It was maybe twa o'clock when the sodger that had been in Lag's room cam' doon into the kitchen. I thocht noo my 'oor had arrived and that I should yet ha'e time to get oot to Locharbriggs afore I was due to meet you. But nae sic luck! 'He's asleep noo,' he said. 'He's managed to droon the pain in Nith water and a couple o' bottles o' Oporto.' Weel, I saw that the outlook was no' very bricht for me; but I made anither attempt to persuade my guard to let me away for an' 'oor or twa, promisin' solemnly that I should return punctually. But he would ha'e nane o't. So there I was, kept a prisoner, and the afternoon dragged wearily by.

"At lang last six o'clock cam', and I knew that if you hadna fa'en into the haun's o' the troopers you would be waitin' for me at the Port o' Vennel. I was sair perplexed. I wondered if I daur bribe the wee drummer to tak' a note to you, and I had framed a suitable epistle in Latin that I jaloused nane o' thae ignorant troopers would understaun'. Then I thocht better o't; for a note to you frae me micht direct their attention to you, and I didna want that. The 'oors o' the evenin' flitted awa' and by and by it cam' to half-past nine, and the sodger cam' doon the stairs again and said: 'Sir Robert is awake noo and wants to see the packman.'

"So I went up the stairs, and as I left the kitchen ane o' the troopers laughingly cried after me:

"'If he wants to put "the boot" on ye, ye'd best offer him your tree-leg. He's likely tae be that drunk he winna ken the differ.'

"The sodger that was his body-servant threw open the door o' his room and said: 'The packman, sir,' and in I stepped as bold as ye like. He was sittin' in a big chair wrapped in a lang flowered goon. His feet rested on twa big cushions and were rolled up in bandages. Juist beside the cushions stood a basin o' water; it was the same, nae doot, that the wee drummer boy had been kept busy fillin'. Lag glowered at me as I cam' through the door, and twisted roon' in his chair.

"'Good evening, Sir Robert,' says I. 'I hope you are feeling better.'

"His brow gathered in a knot, and he growled: 'Wha the devil said I had been ill? I havena asked ye here to talk aboot mysel'. It's you I want to put a few questions to.'

"'I am at yer service, sir,' I said. 'What can I dae for you?'

"'Well,' says he, 'I've had a message from Sir Thomas Dalzell. He tells me that four of his troopers were set on by a gang of ruffians in New Abbey Road twa or three days sin', and seriously mishandled; and he minds that he saw you on the road at Loch End that very day. He jalouses that after he saw you you took the road to New Abbey. What he wants to ken is this: Did you see onybody on the road that afternoon who might have been guilty o' this criminal attack upon the soldiers o' His Majesty?'

"Weel, that was a straicht question, but it wasna to be replied to wi' a straicht answer; so I thocht it wiser to evade the issue, an' I said: 'Sir, can you gi'e me ony further particlers? Hoo mony sodgers were there? What was the number o' their assailants? Where did the attack take place, and what happened to the sodgers?'

"That shook him off the scent, though, for a minute, I was feared that he saw through me, for he said: 'Now, Hector, ye talk like a damned hedge-lawyer. There were four soldiers involved. As far as Sir Thomas can make out, the number of their assailants was six or eight, and the attack took place on the road about a mile and a half from New Abbey. After being knocked senseless, the soldiers were carried into a wood and tied to a tree. They werena found till next day.'

"Now I knew where we stood. Dalzell and Lag had got the scent a' wrang. It wasna for me to gi'e the scent richt. So it didna cost me ony scruples o' conscience to make replies to the facts that he had laid before me. 'Sir Robert,' says I, 'the case baffles me a' thegither. I maun ha'e been very near the wood ye speak o' at the time this attack was made upon the troopers, but I saw nae sodgers on the road, nor did I come across ony six or eight men wha micht ha'e assailed them. As a matter o' fact I met naebody between Loch End and New Abbey, except a puir auld body gatherin' a wheen sticks.' And then an idea occurred to me--for I knew that if Lag or Dalzell couldna lay their hands upon the men wha had attacked the troopers, they would start harryin' every hoose, where there was a likely young man, between Loch End and New Abbey. That would only mean persecution for innocent folk; so, though I was fain enough to save my ane skin and yours, I didna' want others to be punished for oor deeds, and I threw oot a suggestion at which Lag jumped. 'It's only a theory o' mine, Sir Robert,' I said, 'but it's juist possible that this assault on the sodgers was made by the sailors frae some smugglin' craft that micht be lyin' in the Solway ayont New Abbey.'

"'Man, Hector,' he said, 'that's worth thinkin' o'. There was a smuggler reported in the estuary a few days syne. I maun look into that.'

"And then the pain in his feet began to get bad, and he cursed horribly. When he got his breath again, he looked at me and said:

"'And now, Hector, a word in your lug. You're supposed to be a guid King's man, and I have no direct evidence that you are not; but it's a queer thing that when you drop a hint to the King's representatives aboot some hill-man's nest and the troopers gang to harry it, there are nae eggs in it'; and he glowered at me savagely. 'Have a care,' he growled, 'have a care!'

"I thocht it was time to change the subject, and lookin' doon frae his face to his bandaged feet I said: 'I would coont it a high honour if ye wad permit me to try some o' my magical salve on your feet. I can assure ye, sir, it has powers o' a high order; it's used in the Court o' His Majesty the King himsel'.' Wi' that I produced a wee pot o' it oot o' my pocket. 'It will,' I said, 'produce instant relief and ensure for ye a guid nicht's rest. May I ha'e the honour o' tryin' it, sir?'

"'Well,' says Lag, 'I'm ready to try anything. Nobody but mysel' kens the torment I have been suffering. It's fair damnable.'

"Withoot anither word I dropped down on my knees beside him and took off the cauld water bandages wi' as much gentleness as I could; and when they were off and I saw his feet, I kent hoo he maun ha'e suffered. They were the colour o' half-ripe plums and that swollen that if ye put yer finger on them ye left a dint as though they had been clay. I said to mysel', says I, 'Hector, here's a test for yer salve,' so I talked to Lag cheerily o' the wonderfu' cures I had made afore, and a' the while, as gently as I could, I was rubbin' his feet wi' it. When I had been rubbin' for the better pairt o' half an 'oor, he said: 'Man, Hector, ye're nae fule. Ye've gi'en me greater ease than I've had a' day. Did ye say ye made this saw yoursel'?' I told him it was my ain discovery and that nane but me could supply it, but if he would dae me the honour o' acceptin' a pot or twa, he would mak' me a prood man. Then I bandaged his feet and washed my hands.

"'That's fine,' he said. 'Now, Hector, one good turn deserves another,' and taking up a wee bell that stood on a table beside him he rang it, and his body-servant came back into the room. 'Bring a couple o' bottles o' Malvoisie,' he ordered. 'And at the same time fetch that soldier of Sir Thomas Dalzell's wha brought the message this morning.'

"'In a few minutes back came the servant wi' a couple o' bottles in his hand and behind him a trooper wi' a bandage roond his heid. I recognised him at aince. He was the fourth that we laid oot in the wood. When I saw him I maun say I got an awfu' fricht; for if ye mind he was the ane that had a chance o' seein' you and me. I thocht tae masel'--Noo, Hector, ye're in a bonnie hole, but neither by act or word did I let on that I was perturbed, and I waited for what should happen next. Lag ordered his man to open ane o' the bottles. Then he poured oot a glass for me and anither for himsel', and turnin' to Dalzell's man, he said:

"'Can ye tell me if these ruffians that set on you were sailors? and how many o' them were there a' thegither?'

"The man hesitated for a wee and then answered: 'I'm no clear, sir, whether they were sailors or no'. Ye see, sir, I got an awfu' crack on the heid, and ever since I've felt gey queer like. They may ha'e been sailors; that I dinna ken, nor am I quite sure hoo mony there were. I min' only o' seein' twa masel'; but I'm sure o' this, that nae twa sailors nor twa onything else, short o' deevils, could ha'e laid oot four sodgers o' the King's as we were laid oot. There maun ha'e been aboot six o' them. There may ha'e been eight or ten, but I'm no sure ava, sir.'

"'Well,' said Lag, angry-like, 'that's no muckle help. Could you recognise one o' them if you were to see him again?'

"I looked at the sodger oot of the corner of my e'e. If I hadna had a wooden leg my knees would ha'e knocked thegither, but I waited.

"'Yes, sir,' said the sodger, 'I'm sure o't. I could recognise baith o' the men that attacked me.'

"Lag pointed straicht at me. 'Tak' a look here,' he said. 'Have you ever seen this man before?'

"I looked straicht at Sir Robert and wondered if he was playin' wi' me as a cat plays wi' a moose, and then I turned to the sodger so that he could tak' a guid look at me; but a' the time I was considerin' what micht be passin' in the crafty mind o' Lag, cauld and cruel behin' his knotted brow. Did he ken the truth? The sodger looked at me frae heid to foot. The licht in the room was dim, and by way o' showin' that I feared naething, I said: 'By your leave, Sir Robert,' and I lifted ane o' the lichted candles frae the table and held it in my haun' so that the sodger could tak' a guid look at me. He scanned me carefully again and shook his head, saying:

"'I ha'e never seen this man afore. The man I mind was clean shaved.'

"Wi' that I walked ower to the table and laid the candlestick doon again.

"The sodger saluted and turned to go, but I spoke up: 'Sir Robert,' said I, 'may I examine this puir fellow's heid? I micht by the application o' my magical salve, with whose virtues you are already acquaint, gi'e him some relief.'

"'Certainly, certainly,' said Lag, now in a good temper.

"So wi' that I took the bandage off the trooper's heid. Ma certie! what a beauty I had put there wi' my ain guid stick. It was the size o' a pigeon's egg, and when I felt it between my fingers I was prood o' my handiwork. But I never let on. I examined it wi' care; then by way o' raisin' a laugh oot o' Lag I said: 'This young man has to thank Providence that he was born wi' a thick heid.' Saying which, I took a little o' the salve and began to rub it on the lump. The fellow winced, but in the presence o' Lag he was frichtened to mak ony resistance. I put a guid dressin' on the swelling and bound it up wi' a kerchief. He was wonderfu' gratefu', but at a sign frae Lag he went off and I was left alane wi' Sir Robert. He signed to me to sit doon, and passed me a glass o' the Malvoisie. As I took it he raised his glass and said, 'The King, God save Him,' and I, mindin' the advice I had gi'en to you to be a' things to a' men, followed his example and said, 'The King, God save Him,' and under my breath I added to masel', 'God kens he needs it.' Weel, I sat and cracked wi' Lag for maybe half an 'oor and tellt him mair than ane guid story and had a he'rty laugh or twa oot o' him. Then I pushed the glass away, saying: 'By your leave, Sir Robert, if ye're dune wi' me, I'll be obliged for yer permission to return to my lodgings, for I maun be off on the road the morn.'

"He raised nae objection, and said: 'You won't forget to let me have a pot o' that saw.'

"'Certainly, Sir Robert,' I replied, 'you shall ha'e it the first thing in the mornin': or, if it pleases you to send a trooper wi' me you can ha'e a pot o't the nicht.'

"'That's better,' he said. 'And you'll tak' this bottle o' wine, and whenever ye ha'e a wee drap o't, I hope you will think kindly o' Lag. He's a man sorely miscalled in this country-side.'

"'Thank ye kindly, Sir Robert,' says I. 'I shall see that you are supplied wi' my magical salve for the rest o' yer life. And if on yer next visit to London ye should ha'e the chance o' droppin' a word into the ear o' His Majesty, ye micht juist ask him quietly whether he has used that pot I sent him a twalmonth sin'. I'm inclined to imagine, between you and me, Sir Robert, that it never reached His Majesty's ain hand. I think it was stopped on the wey by ane o' the Court ladies wha used it to make hersel' beautiful.'

"He threw back his held and roared wi' laughter.

"'Man, Hector,' he said, 'ye're a caution. But mair than likely ye're richt. I've been to the Court mysel', and God kens some o' the women there would need a' the magical saws in the world to make them bonnie. I'll juist put it to His Majesty, Hector, and ask him,' and he roared wi' laughter again.