Always the twilight hour is the hour of memories, and as I made what haste I could towards the great sheet of water they crowded in upon me. There, on the right, was the hiding-place which had afforded me shelter for so many nights: there on a memorable day I had caught sight of Mary, remote yet bewitching: there, on the other side, was the place where Alexander Main lay sleeping. Then I remembered the mission upon which I had come and uttered the whaup call. The sound was flung back by some echoing rock, but there was no response from any human throat. Again I uttered it, but no answer came; Andrew was not here. I made my way round the end of the loch and sought the little cairn of stones beneath which rested the body of my friend. Taking my bonnet off, I bent reverently above the little mound. He had given his life for me. Had I yet shown myself worthy of such sacrifice? I plucked a handful of early heather, purple in the dying light, and laid it among the grey stones of the cairn. Purple is the colour of kings. Then I stole away, and once more uttered the whaup call; but there was no answer, save that some mere-fowl rose from the surface of the lake and on flittering, splashing wings, furrowing the water, fled from my presence. I sought the place where I had hidden aforetime and where but for my friend I should have been captured by the dragoons. It was undisturbed. No one, apparently, had made use of it since I had been there. In my weary state and with my aching limb, it was useless to try to return to Daldowie in the darkness. Haply Andrew was already safe, with Mary and Jean, by his own fireside. I pictured them sitting there; I saw them at the taking of the Book; I heard Mary’s voice leading the singing, and I knew that to-night they would be singing a psalm of thanksgiving. I heard again, as I had so often heard when lying in the garret above the kitchen, the scrape of the chairs upon the flagged floor as the worshippers knelt to commit themselves to the care of the Eternal Father: and I knew that somewhere in his petitions Andrew would remember me; and his petition would rise on the soft wings of Mary’s faith and soar above the high battlements of heaven, straight to the ear of God. I wondered whether my absence would distress them. Mary, I knew, would be on the rack of anxiety. Her mother, no doubt, would be anxious too: but their anxiety would be tempered by the wise counsel of Andrew who would point out to them, no doubt with emphasis, and possibly with some tart comment on the witlessness of women, that it was not to be expected that I, a lamiter, could accomplish such a long journey in the space between daylight and sunsetting. I could hear him say: "I could ha’e tellt ye afore he started. The lad’s a’ richt; but it’s a lang road, and would tax even me, an’ auld as I am I’m a better man than Bryden ony day."