“Have I done it well?” she asked.
“As weel as he did it himsel’,” the child answered. “Eh, but you twae would make a bonny pair.”
I turned away abruptly and crept back to the garden path, my heart sinking within me, and a feeling of guilt in my soul. I was angry at myself for eavesdropping, angry and ashamed. But a great dread came on me as I thought of the girl, this firebrand, who had been trusted to my keeping. Lackaday for the peace of mind of a man who has to see to a maid who could dance in this fashion, with her father and lover in the cold hills! And always I called to mind that I had been her teacher, and that my lessons, begun as a harmless sport to pass the time, were like to breed an overmastering passion. Mon Dieu! I was like the man in the Eastern tale who had raised a spirit which he was powerless to control.
And just then, as if to point my meditations, I heard the cry of a plover from the moor behind, and a plaff of the chill night-wind blew in my face.
VIII
How I Set the Signal
When I set out to write this history in the English tongue, that none of my own house might read it, I did not know the hard task that lay before me. For if I were writing it in my own language, I could tell the niceties of my feelings in a way which is impossible for me in any other. And, indeed, to make my conduct intelligible, I should forthwith fall to telling each shade of motive and impulse which came to harass my mind. But I am little skilled in this work, so I must needs recount only the landmarks of my life, or I should never reach the end.
I slept ill that night, and at earliest daylight was awake and dressing. The full gravity of the case was open to me now, and you may guess that my mind was no easy one. I went down to the sitting room, where the remains of the last night’s supper still lay on the table. The white morning light made all things clear and obtrusive, and I remember wishing that the lamp was lit again and the shutters closed. But in a trice all meditations were cast to the winds, for I heard the door at the back of the house flung violently open and the sound of a man’s feet on the kitchen floor.
I knew that I was the only one awake in the house, so with much haste I passed out of the room to ascertain who the visitor might be. In the center of the back room stood a great, swart man, shaking the rain from his clothes and hair, and waiting like one about to give some message. When he saw me he took a step forward, scanned me closely, and then waited my question.
“Who in the devil’s name are you?” I asked angrily, for I was half amazed and half startled by his sudden advent.
“In the Lord’s name I am Andrew Gibb,” he responded solemnly.
“And what’s your errand?” I asked further.
“Bide a wee and you’ll hear. You’ll be the foreigner whae stops at the manse the noo?”
“Go on,” I said shortly.
“Thae twae sants, Maister Lambert and Maister Semple, ’ill ha’e made some kind o’ covenant wi’ you? At ony rate, hear my news and dae your best. Their hidy-hole at the heid o’ the Stark Water’s been betrayed, and unless they get warning it’ll be little you’ll hear mair o’ them. I’ve aye been their freend, so I cam’ here to do my pairt by them.”
“Are you one of the hill-men?”
“Na, na! God forbid! I’m a douce, quiet-leevin’ man, and I’d see the Kirk rummle aboot their lugs ere I’d stir my shanks frae my ain fireside. But I’m behauden to the minister for the life o’ my bairn, whilk is ower lang a story for ye to hear; and to help him I would rin frae Maidenkirk to Berwick. So I’ve aye made it my wark to pick up ony word o’ scaith that was comin’ to him, and that’s why I’m here the day. Ye’ve heard my news richt, ye’re shure?”
“I’ve heard your news. Will you take any food before you leave?”
“Na; I maun be off to be back in time for the kye.”
“Well, good day to you, Andrew Gibb,” I said, and in a minute the man was gone.
Now, here I must tell what I omitted to tell in a former place—that when the exiles took to the hills they bade me, if I heard any word of danger to their hiding-place, to go by a certain path, which they pointed out, to a certain place, and there overturn a little cairn of stones. This was to be a signal to them for instant movement. I knew nothing of the place of their retreat, and for this reason could swear on my oath with an easy conscience; but this scrap of enlightenment I had, a scrap of momentous import for both life and
