"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’.