But about mid June I bethought me that I had stayed long enough in that lonely place and resolved to move my camp. For one thing I wished to get nearer Barns, that I might be within reach of my house for such provisions as I required. Also there were signs that the place was no longer safe. Several times of late I had heard the voice of soldiers on the moors above my hiding, and at any moment a chance dragoon might stray down the ravine. So late one evening about midsummer I bade adieu to the dark Glenhurn, and took off across the wild hills to the lower vale of Tweed. The place I chose was just at the back of Scrape, between that mountain and a wild height called the Pyke-stone hill. It was a stretch of moss-hags and rough heather, dry as tinder at this time, but, as I well knew, in late autumn and winter a treacherous flow. Thither I had been wont to go to the duck-shooting in the months of November and February, when great flocks of mallard and teal settled among the pools. Then one has to look well to his feet, for if he press on eager and unthinking, he is like to find himself up to the armpits. But if he know the way of the thing, and walk only on the tufted rushes and strips of black peat, he may take the finest sport that I know of. Here then I came, for the place was high and lonesome, and with a few paces I could come to the top of the Little Scrape and see the whole vale of Tweed from Drummelzier to Neidpath. I had the less fear of capture, for the place was almost impassable for horses; also it was too near the house of Barns to be directly suspected, and the country below it was still loyal and with no taint of whiggery.