He undid the bandages, and looking down I saw that beneath them the ankle had been carefully padded with wool and heather. I knew now the purpose of the things he had brought with him, for he stripped off the pad with which the ankle was surrounded and began to make a fresh one. Apparently he had some knowledge of the healing art. He ran his fingers gently over the joint and then bade me try to move the foot. I found that movement was difficult, but that though it was painful it did not provoke such suffering as that which I remembered having experienced upon the moor. "It’s daein’ fine," he said. "It was a bad break, but by and by ye’ll be able to walk again, though I fear ye’ll aye be a lamiter. But Jacob himsel’--a better man than you--hirpled for the maist pairt o’ his life." As he talked he was binding my foot again, and when he had finished, it felt most comfortable. "And noo," he said, "let me hear what ye ha’e to say for yersel’. The facts are black against ye. We fand you on the moor in the meenister’s claes: ye had the guid man’s Bible in your pocket: when last he was seen you were in his company: and nocht has been heard o’ him frae that day to this. What say ye?" and he looked at me piercingly. Without more ado I told him how the brave old saint had given his life that mine might be saved, and how I had buried his body in the silence of the hills, taking his clothes to disguise myself and bringing away his Bible as a precious possession. As I talked I watched the changing emotions chase each other across his face. At first his eyes were watchful with suspicion, but as I continued he seemed thrilled with a tensity of expectation, and when I told him how the end had come with the rattle of muskets I saw his strong, gnarled hands clench, and, through his tightened lips, he muttered, "The black deevils," and then the tears stole down his weather-beaten cheeks. When I had finished there was a silence which at last he broke: "A man o’ God, a saint if ever there was ane. We’ll miss him sairly here I’m thinkin’, but they will be glad to ha’e him on the other side." Then he rose from the stool and gripping my right hand, crushed it in his own. "I believe you, my lad, I believe you, and if Alexander Main counted you worthy to die for, Andrew Paterson o’ Daldowie may count you worthy o’ a share of his kail and saut. I maun gang and tell the wife; her and Mary are anxious to ken the truth": and he made for the trap-door and began to go down. But just before his head disappeared he turned and called: "Maybe I’ll come back the day to see ye again, but if I dinna’, the wife’ll be up to look after ye, and if I’m spared I’ll be up masel’ the morn. This is nae day to talk aboot the dambrod. I’ll speir ye aboot it some ither time." *CHAPTER XVII* *AN ADOPTED SON*