"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.