I kept by the stream till patches of fields began to appear and the roofs of the little clachan. Then I struck higher up on the hillside and kept well in the shade of a little cloud of birk trees which lay along the edge of the slope. It was a glorious sunny day, such as I scarce ever saw surpassed, though I have seen many weathers under many skies. The air was as still and cool as the first breath of morning, though now it was mid-afternoon. All the nearer hills stood out clear-lined and silent; a bird sang in the nigh thicket; sheep bleated from the meadow, and around the place hung the low rustle of the life of the woods. Soon I came to a spot above the bend of the water near the house called Holmes Mill. There dwelt my very good friend the miller, a man blessed with as choice a taste in dogs as ever I have seen, and a great Whig to boot—both of which tricks he learned from a Westland grandfather. Lockhart was his name, and his folk came from the Lee near the town of Lanark to this green Tweedside vale. From the steading came the sound of life. There was a great rush of water out of the dam. Clearly the miller was preparing for his afternoon’s labours. The wish took me strongly to go down and see him, to feel the wholesome smell of grinding corn, and above all to taste his cakes, which I had loved of old. So without thinking more of it, and in utter contempt for the shepherd’s warning, I scrambled down, forded the water, and made my way to the house. Clearly something was going on at the mill, and whatever it was there was a great to-do. Sounds of voices came clear to me from the mill-door, and the rush of the water sang ever in my ears. The miller has summoned his family to help him, thought I: probably it is the lifting of the bags to the mill-loft. But as I came nearer I perceived that it was not a mere chatter of friendly tongues, but some serious matter. There was a jangling note, a sound as of a quarrel and an appeal. I judged it wise therefore to keep well in the shadow of the wall and to go through the byre and up to the loft by an old way which I remembered—a place where one could see all that passed without being seen of any. And there sure enough was a sight to stagger me. Some four soldiers with unstrung muskets stood in the court, while their horses were tethered to a post. Two held the unhappy miller in their stout grip, and at the back his wife and children were standing in sore grief. I looked keenly at the troopers, and as I looked I remembered all too late the shepherd’s words. They were part of my cousin’s company, and one I recognised as my old friend Jan Hamman of the Alphen Road and the Cor Water. The foremost of the soldiers was speaking.