The Scottish poet's poverty was almost equal to his genius. On that account, Robert Burns was glad to secure the stipend of fifty pounds a year to which he became entitled on his appointment as exciseman in 1788. It may be that his convivial habits made his official position particularly acceptable, since doubtless his perquisites included the keeping of his own jug filled. And there were moonshiners among the Scottish hills in those days, as perhaps there are to-day. On occasion, the poet made a gift of a captured still to some discreet friend. One recipient emigrated to America, and bore into the wilderness that has become North Carolina the kettle and cap of copper on which Burns had graven his name, and the date, 1790. Afterward, as the years passed, the still knew many owners, mostly unlawful. It won fame, and this saved it from the junk-heap of its fellows, when seized by the Federal officers. Three times, it was even placed on public exhibition. As many, it was stolen by moonshiners. For years now, it had remained in secret. Marshal Stone yearned to recapture the Burns still. There was no reason whatsoever for believing it to be in the possession of Hodges, yet it might as easily be with that desperado as with another. There was at least the possibility. The marshal, as he rode north before the dawn next morning, felt a new kindling of hope. It seemed to him almost certain that the opportunity was at hand to satisfy one ambition at least by putting Hodges behind the bars. For the other, it was on the lap of the gods. The officer was at pains to use every precaution to avoid being observed while in company with the girl, whom he duly met at the appointed place while the sun was yet low on the eastern horizon. The two made their way with what quiet they could through devious paths to Luffman's Branch. The dew lay heavy on the laurel leaves of the thickets, and the breeze was perfumed with the penetrant fragrance of many blossoms. The day was thrilling with the matins of the birds. The balsamic air was a wine of life. The rugged mountain peaks seemed to stand as an impregnable barrier against the confusions and evils of the larger world. But the man and the girl recked nought of these things as they went forward, with cautious steps and watchful eyes. They knew that the tranquil scene masked wickedness close by them, which would not hesitate to destroy. The discovery of the marshal in that vicinity would mean for him the bullet of an assassin from out the screen of leaves, and the same fate--or worse--for his companion. The corpses would be lost in the Devil's Cauldron. Men would whisper grim surmises, and whisper low lest the like come upon them. And that would be all.