"Ay, as shair as daith," and he drew a wet finger across his dirty neck. "Hoo will they droon her?" "They’ll pit her in a poke wi’ twa channel stanes and they’ll fling her richt into the pool." "Will she sink?" "Ay, richt eneuch." "I’m comin’." "Come on, and I’ll show ye the bluid o’ the man they shot; maybe we’ll fin’ a bullet." My fingers itched to be at the throats of these carrion-crows of the streets, to whom Mary’s extremity and mine was nothing more than an occasion of amusement. My heart cried within me--"O my beloved!" and I pulled myself together and began to force a path through the rabble and by and by succeeded in reaching the Vennel Port. Quickly I crossed the bridge and made for the cottage of Phemie McBride. I knocked anxiously at the door. Would she remember me and--would she know where Hector was? As these doubts and fears were racing through my mind, the door was opened just far enough to allow the good woman to protrude an inquiring face. She looked at me penetratingly; then recognition dawned: "It’s you, is it?" "Where’s Hector?" I answered brusquely. "Come awa’ ben," she said, "and see for yersel’," and with that she threw the door wide open to allow me to enter. I sprang past her, and there, sitting by the kitchen fire, his pipe aglow and his well-thumbed copy of Horace in his hand, sat the packman. He sprang to his feet and grasped me warmly by the hand. "Man," he said, "ye couldna ha’e come at a better time. I’m fair graivelled by this passage in Horace. Can ye gie me the sense o’t?" "To perdition with Horace," I shouted. "Mary’s in the Tolbooth of Dumfries and I want your help." The book fell spinning from his hand and lay face down on the floor. "In the Tolbooth o’ Dumfries!" he exclaimed. "Wha tellt ye that?" "I saw her enter less than an hour ago with my own eyes," I said. Hector stooped, and, before replying, picked up his book. "In the Tolbooth o’ Dumfries," he said slowly. "Guid sakes! I thocht the lassie was deid. Ye’re sure it’s her?" "As sure," I answered, "as I am that I am speaking to you." "Weel," he replied, "if that’s so Horace maun juist bide a wee. This is a maitter that wants considerin’. Come awa’ to my room," and he led the way to the chamber in which, close on a year ago, I myself had slept. *CHAPTER XLII* *IN THE TOLBOOTH OF DUMFRIES*