"Maist excellent advice," said Davidson. "A puir trooper has nae richt to sic a luxury. Besides, it’s a burden, and wi’ a’ his trappings he has eneuch to carry already." He paused for a moment--looked into the barn over his shoulder and continued: "To my way o’ thinkin’, naebody has ony richt to a conscience but the King. Ye see it’s this way. A trooper maun obey his officers: he has nae richt o’ private judgment, so he has nae work for his conscience to do. His officers maun obey them that are higher up--so they dinna need a conscience, and so it goes on, up, and up till ye reach the King, wha is the maister o’ us a’. He’s the only body in the realm that can afford the luxury: and even he finds it a burden." "I’m no surprised," interjected Agnew. "A conscience like that maun be an awfu’ encumbrance." "Ay, so it is," replied Davidson. "They do say that the King finds it sic a heavy darg to look after his conscience that he appoints a man to be its keeper." Agnew laughed. "Does he lead it about on a chain like a dog?" he asked. "I canna tell you as to that," replied Davidson, "but it’s mair than likely, for it maun be a rampageous sort o’ beast whiles." "And what if it breaks away," asked Agnew, laughing again, "and fleshes its teeth in the King’s leg?" "Man," said Davidson, "ye remind me: the very thing ye speak o’ aince happened. Nae doot the keeper is there to haud back his conscience frae worrying the King, but I mind readin’ that ane o’ the keepers didna haud the beast in ticht eneuch, and it bit the King. It had something to dae wi’ a wumman. I’ve forgotten the partic’lers: but I think the King was auld King Hal." "And what happened to the keeper?" asked Agnew. "Oh, him," replied Davidson. "The King chopped his heid off. And that, or something like it, is what will happen to you, my lad," he said, looking meaningly at me, "if Lag hears ye talk ony sic nonsense. If thae damnable Covenanters didna nurse their consciences like sickly bairns they would be a bit mair pliable, and gi’e us less work." I would gladly have continued the conversation, but we were interrupted by the appearance of the cook, who came round the corner of the barn staggering under the weight of a huge black pot full of our morning porridge. "Parritch, lads, wha’s for parritch?" he called, setting down his load, and preparing to serve out our portions with a large wooden ladle. We filed past him each with our metal platter and a horn spoon in our hands, and received a generous ladleful. The regimental cook is always fair game for the would-be wit, and our cook came in for his share of chaff; but he was ready of tongue, and answered jibe with jibe--some of his retorts stinging like a whip-lash so that his tormentors were sore and sorry that they had challenged him. Soon the last man was served and all of us fell to.