"A toast," said Thomson. "The King, God bless him," and we stood up, and drank. The potent spirit burned my mouth like liquid fire, but my companions seemed to relish it as they drank deeply. I had no desire to dull my wits with strong drink, so, as I helped myself to a scone and a piece of cheese, I asked Luckie if she could let me have a little water. "Watter!" cried Thomson. "Whit the deevil d’ye want wi’ watter? Surely you’re no’ gaun to rot your inside wi’ sic’ feckless trash." "No," I said, "I just want to let down the whisky." "Whit!" he shouted, "spile guid Blednoch wi’ pump watter!--it’s a desecration, a fair abomination in the sicht o’ the Lord. I thought frae yer brogue ye were an Englishman. This proves it; nae stammick for guid drink; nae heid for theology. Puir deevil!"--and he shook his head pityingly. I laughed as I watched my insatiable companion once more empty his glass and refill it. "An’ whit are ye daein’ on the road sae late the nicht, young man?" said Luckie, suddenly. "Lag’s men are usually bedded long afore noo. Are ye after the deserter tae, like the twa dragoons that were here a bittock syne?" I had made up my mind that my flight and identity would best be concealed by an appearance of ingenuous candour, so I replied without hesitation: "Yes, I am. He has not been here to-night, has he?" "Certes, no," exclaimed the old woman. "This is a law-abiding hoose and I wad shelter neither Covenanter nor renegade King’s man." My words seemed to disarm her of any suspicion she might have had about me, and she busied herself stirring the peat fire. Its warmth and the whisky which he had consumed were making Jock drowsy. He had not touched any of the food, and his chin had begun to sink on his chest. Soon he slipped from his seat and lay huddled, a snoring mass, on the flagged floor. Luckie made as though to lift him, but I forbade her. "Let him be: he’ll only be quarrelsome if you wake him, and he’s quite safe on the floor." "That’s as may be," said Luckie, "but ye’re no’ gaun to stop a’ nicht, or ye’ll never catch the deserter, and ye canna leave Jock Tamson to sleep in my kitchen. I’m a dacint widda’ woman, and nae scandal has ever soiled my name; and I’ll no’ hae it said that ony man ever sleepit in my hoose, and me by my lane, since I buried my ain man thirty years sin’." "That’s all right," I replied, "have no fear. If Jock is not awake when I go, I’ll carry him out and put him in the ditch by the roadside." The old woman laughed quietly. "Fegs, that’s no’ bad; he’ll get the fricht o’ his life when he waukens up in the cauld o’ the mornin’ and sees the stars abune him instead o’ the bauks o’ my kitchen."