More than once I laid bare my heart to the minister, and from his wise words I gained much solace; but, though he would not say so, I knew that in his heart he believed that Mary had fallen into the hands of the troopers and been done to death like her father and mother. A day came when I could bear the suspense no longer. Inaction served only to increase my torture of mind. I must seek Mary myself. I told my companions what I purposed. With one voice they tried to dissuade me. They pointed out that such an enterprise was beset with hazard and might lead to death. Little did they know that death had no terrors for such a love as mine, and that I would have counted it a pleasant thing when weighed against the unquenchable torment that burned in my breast. So I beat down all their objections until, convinced that I was set in my purpose, they ceased to oppose me and planned means whereby I might the better carry out my quest. It was from Hector that the most useful suggestion came. "Ye micht," he said, "gang through the country as a packman, but frae what I mind o’ your puir success at New Abbey, you wouldna fill the pairt." His eyes twinkled. "Besides," he continued, "I feel that I ha’e a proprietary richt to ony customers there are to be had in Galloway, and you micht be interferin’ wi’ my business--an affront I couldna weel thole. Better pose as a puir gangrel body, wounded, if ye like, in the wars. Yer game leg is evidence eneuch o’ that, and when ye come to a toon or a wee bit clachan, ye can aye turn an honest penny by singin’ a sang. I mind ye tellin’ me Mary was a bonnie singer. Belike ye min’ some o’ the songs she sang--dootless weel-kent auld Scots sangs. If she were to hear ye singin’ ane or ither o’ them, mair than likely, oot o’ curiosity, she would come oot to see wha it was that was singin’ ane o’ her ain sangs. If ye keep yer e’en open as weel as yer ears, wha kens but what ye may find her. Besides, the disguise o’ a puir gangrel body is hardly likely to be seen through by ony dragoons ye may come across, for ye can aye, if ye like, if ye imagine there are troopers aboot, sing a King’s song, sic as ’Awa, Whigs, awa!’ and they’ll never suspect ye o’ bein’ a Covenanter. And dinna forget this; if ye ever want word o’ Hector the packman, ask at Phemie McBride’s. She’ll no hae forgotten ye, and she’ll aye be able to tell ye where ye’ll find me. If ye will gang, gang ye must; but ae last word o’ advice I would gi’e ye--dinna be runnin’ yersel’ into needless danger and aye remember that a guid ash stick laid on tae the heid o’ a trooper will mony a time thwart an evil deed devised in his black he’rt. There’s nae ither man I would dae it for, but I’m makin’ ye a present o’ ’Trusty,’" and he pressed his own stick into my hand.