His clothes were dry, nearly scorched. These he had stolen as he fled across the countryside with his companion, who along with himself had broken early from the rest. But the fit of them was bad, and their look on him plainly suspicious. As he dressed, then climbed carefully up to the narrow opening, he felt a deep trepidation he could not suppress. Because somewhere inside him a voice had said, "Enough. Enough running and hiding and stealing. I must take myself openly to the first villager I see, and ask for help." And while this ran counter to all the hard lessons he had learned in the stockade---that a man must look out for himself, trusting and needing no one else---yet a line had been crossed inside him, from which there was no returning. He did not wish to die, but neither could he live as some hunted and detestable beast. He climbed down from the rock. The twilit beach was empty and the waves had grown less. Here and again came the sound of gulls, along with the high screech of a sea-hawk somewhere above. He plodded on through the indifferent sand, toward the small fishing village some two miles distant. Upon leaving the hiding place he had formed no clear plan, and in his bitterness told himself he did not want one. But as the cliffs that walked with him began to diminish and pull back from the shore, leaving the more level expanse and tiny harbor of the village, his mind of necessity began to work again, trying to think of anyone he might know there, who would have no love for the English, and be willing to take him in. In the midst of his reveries he looked up to see an old man sitting on the porch of a low ancient cottage, separated from the rest of the village, holding aloof as it were on this, the nearer and less accessible side of the harbor. A steep stretch of sand led down from it to the very edge of the horseshoe bay, broken here and there by large projections of stone. The old man looked back at him placidly, smoking a short pipe and humming quietly but distinctly to himself. The prisoner felt fear, and a deep hesitation, until almost in spite of himself he began to follow the rise and fall of the simple tune. Then with a rush of warmth and melancholy he recognized it: "The Walls of Inverness." It was a song that had been sung at the camp fires of Highland soldiers for time out of mind. The old man was a veteran, in this blessed, unmistakable way telling him that he knew of his plight, and would help. With relief but at the same time caution, the younger man approached the cottage, and mounted the steps to the weather-beaten porch. The two men regarded each other a moment in silence. "You know, then?" "Aye, lad," rejoined the fisherman in his clear baritone. "Three red-coated cavalry were here yesterday, searching about and makin' a fuss. Saw fit to post a threatening bill on the door of the church. `Escaped traitors (traitors, mind) from Edinburgh. . .believed headed. . .fifty pounds reward