The afternoon dragged wearily on. From time to time I made my way to the foot of the loaning and, hidden by a thorn bush, anxiously scanned the country-side. There were no troopers to be seen. In the kitchen Mary and her mother were busily engaged with household tasks, and I sat on the settle watching them. We did not speak much, for heavy dread had laid its hand upon us all. The hours moved on leaden feet. On gossamer wings an amber-banded bee buzzed in, teasing the passive air with its drone as it whirred out again. The "wag-at-the-wa’" ticked monotonously. On the hill-side the whaups were calling, and nearer at hand one heard the lowing of the cows. A speckled hen brooding in the sand before the door, spread her wings and, ruffling her breast-feathers, threw up a cloud of tawny dust. Somewhere in the stack-yard a cock crew, and with clamour of quacking a column of ducks waddled past the doorway to the burn-side. When her baking was over, Jean, wiping the meal from her hands, went out into the open. Mary came and sat on the settle beside me, and as I took her hand it felt strangely cold. I sought to cheer her. After a few minutes Jean returned. "There’s naething to be seen ava," she said. "There’s nae sign o’ the troopers, nor o’ Andra. I wish he were safe at hame." I hastened to assure her that there was nothing to be feared for Andrew. Witless though the demented lad might be, in build and strength he was no match for Andrew, should he be seized with frenzy and endeavour to attack his guide. "I suppose ye’re richt. As a rule I ha’e mair common-sense, but I’m anxious." Mary joined her counsel to mine. "He’ll be a’ richt, mither," she said: "it’s no’ yet six o’clock," and rising, she went out to call the cows. Her sweet voice thrilled the silent air: "Hurley, hurley." When she had gone I made my way to the foot of the loaning again and from the shelter of the thorn-bush studied the landscape. It lay, an undulating picture of beauty, in the mellow light of the early evening--purple and golden and green. No dragoons were in sight. When I reached the house again I found that Jean was no longer there. Thinking that she had gone to search for Andrew, I hastened to look for her, and by and by discovered her standing upon the top of a hillock on the edge of the moor. As I drew near she exclaimed: "Whatever can be keepin’ him?" Together we stood and scanned the distance. Far as the eye could reach we could discern no human being. I tried, with comforting words, to still the turmoil of Jean’s heart. "I’m an auld fule," she said, "but when ye’ve had a man o’ yer ain for mair than thirty year, it mak’s ye gey anxious if ye think he is in danger. Ye see, my mither had ’the sicht,’ and sometimes I think I’ve got it tae. But come awa’ back to the hoose: the milkin’ will be ower and it maun be near supper-time."