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.