He took from his pack a pair of scissors, and set to work upon my beard and whiskers. As he did so, doubt assailed me and I called to him to stop. To be clean-shaven once again was to expose myself to more ready recognition, if it should ever be my lot to encounter one of my former companions among Lag’s troopers. "Ay, lad, ye’re richt," said Hector. "I should ha’e thocht o’ that mysel’. But never mind, I’ve no’ done muckle damage yet. Were you clean-shaven when you were a trooper?" "Yes," I answered. "Weel," he said, "I’ll do a bit o’ fancy work on your face, and I’ll leave your upper lip alane and wi’ some o’ my magical salve you can dress your moustachios to make you look like a Cavalier. Forby, I’ll leave you a wee tuft on your chin, like the King. I’ll warrant neither the folk that saw you in Dumfries wi’ a fortnicht’s growth on yer face, nor the troopers that kent ye as a clean-shaven man, will be likely to recognise you." When he had finished his work he stood back and looked at me carefully, poising his head upon one side, and as was his wont half closing his left eye. He was evidently satisfied, for, with characteristic self-complacency, he said: "Man, Hector, ye’re a lad o’ mony pairts." Out of his pack he produced a small looking-glass of burnished steel and handed it to me. In the uncertain morning light the reflection of my face was not very distinct, but enough to show that my disguise was effective, for I hardly recognised myself. "Come on," said Hector, swinging up his pack, and crossing the bridge we continued our journey. The country had the glamour of early summer upon it. Every bush was crowned with a coronal of green: the fields were smiling with promise: the hill-sides were dimpling with sunny laughter, and the river, which now ran beside us, babbled cheerfully as it sped on its way to the sea. After a few more miles we saw, in the distance, a long row of cottages flanking our way. Hector suddenly quitted the road, and, hidden behind a hedge, we made a long detour in order to avoid them. "Yon," said he, "is the village o’ Closeburn. The curate’s a spy and a tyrant. It behoves us no’ to be seen."