Suddenly I woke, startled. Some noise had disturbed me. I listened intently. Nothing stirred in the house. I sat up in bed, and peered into the darkness, only relieved by the fitful light of the moon stealing through the window. What had wakened me? I waited anxiously; then I heard three little taps, clear and metallic, upon the window. I sprang up and looked out, and saw in the dim-lit courtyard the tall figure of a man, who moved forward when he saw me, and I recognised the wooden leg of Hector. Eagerly I undid the window, swinging it back gently on noiseless hinges, and craned forward into the night. Hector put a hand to his mouth, and whispered, "Wheesht! wheesht!" then walked softly to the door of the house. Hastily throwing on some clothes I crept on tip-toe downstairs, and opening the door admitted him to the kitchen. With uplifted finger he whispered, "Haste ye, and dinna wake the auld woman. We’ll talk on the road." As silently as possible I hastened to my room and finished dressing; then, I rejoined the packman. As I entered the kitchen he was lifting the poker from the fireplace. "She’ll understand--that’s a sign," he said, as he laid it carefully on the top of the table. "But what," I whispered, "about paying her?" "Dinna worry on that score," he said; "she kens me. That’s eneuch. There’s danger afoot. Come on." He led the way to the door, which he opened noiselessly and together we passed out into the courtyard. At the mouth of the close he paused and peered carefully in every direction. Then he turned to me and whispered, "There’s naebody aboot." We passed quickly into the street, and, walking close to the houses so that we were in their full shadow, we hurried away. From the direction we took I judged that our path lay parallel to the course of the river on the side opposite the town of Dumfries. We had walked perhaps a mile before Hector again broke the silence. Still whispering, he said: "Man, I’ve had an awfu’ day. Horace has the richt word every time: ’_Recenti mens trepidat metu_’--’My hert’s a’ o’ a dither wi’ fricht.’ What’s yer name? ye’ve never tellt me." For the first time it dawned on me that he did not know my name. He had called me Joseph at the road-end when Dalzell had taken us unawares, but since then the matter had never been mentioned between us. "My name is Walter de Brydde," I said. "Ay," he said, "but what name was ye kent by when ye were a trooper?" "I called myself Bryden," I replied. "That’s it. It was you richt enough. Oh, I’ve had a terrible day. But I had better begin at the beginning, and tell ye the hale story.