I had been doing justice to the good fare of the house, but a look at the "wag-at-the-wa’" warned me that I must delay no longer. But there was something I must discover. I took my pipe from my pocket and as I filled it said: "I should think, Luckie, that you are well acquainted with this countryside." "Naebody better," she replied. "I was born in Blednoch and I’ve spent a’ my days between there and Penninghame Kirk. No’ that I’ve bothered the kirk muckle," she added. "Then," I said, "suppose a deserter was minded to make for the hills on the other side o’ the Cree, where think you he would try to cross the river?" "If he wisna a fule," she said, "he’d ford it juist ayont the Carse o’ Bar. Aince he’s ower it’s a straicht road to the heichts o’ Millfore." "And where may the Carse o’ Bar be?" I asked. "For unless I hurry, my man may be over the water before I can reach it." "It’s no’ far," she said, "and ye canna miss it. Ony fule could see it in the dark." "Well, I must be off," I said. "Grier o’ Lag is no easy taskmaster and I must lay this man by the heels. I’ll haste me and lie in wait by the Carse of Bar, and if my luck’s in, I may catch him there. What do I owe you, and may I have some of your good scones and a bit of cheese to keep me going?" She brought me a great plateful of scones, which I stowed about my person with considerable satisfaction; then I paid her what she asked, and, picking up Jock, bore him towards the door. He made no resistance, and his head fell limply over my arm as though he were a person dead, though the noise of his breathing was evidence sufficient that he was only very drunk. Luckie opened the door and stood by it with a candle in her hand. I carried Jock down the lane and deposited him underneath the hedge. Then I went back to the cottage to bid my hostess good night. "If ye come through to the back door," she said. "I’ll pit ye on the straicht road for the Carse o’ Bar." I followed her through the kitchen, and she opened a door at the rear of the house and stood in its shadow to let me pass. "Gang richt doon the hill," she said, "and keep yon whin bush on yer left haun; syne ye’ll come to a bed o’ bracken,--keep that on yer richt and haud straicht on. By an’ by ye’ll strike the water edge. Haud up it till ye come to a bend, and that’s the place whaur the deserter will maist likely try to cross it. Ony fule can ford the Cree; it tak’s a wise body to ken whaur. Guid nicht to ye." "Good night," I answered, as I set out, turning for a moment for a last look at the bent old woman as she stood in the dancing shadows thrown by the candle held in her shaking hand. *CHAPTER VI* *IN THE LAP OF THE HILLS*