And in fact, she cantered up to the top of a gentle hill, commanding an extensive prospect. Casting her eyes around, to see that no one was near us, she drew up her horse beneath a few birch-trees, which screened us from the rest of the hunting-field--“Do you see yon peaked, brown, heathy hill, having something like a whitish speck upon the side?” “Terminating that long ridge of broken moorish uplands?--I see it distinctly.” “That whitish speck is a rock called Hawkesmore-crag, and Hawkesmore-crag is in Scotland.” “Indeed! I did not think we had been so near Scotland.” “It is so, I assure you, and your horse will carry you there in two hours.” “I shall hardly give him the trouble; why, the distance must be eighteen miles as the crow flies.” “You may have my mare, if you think her less blown--I say, that in two hours you may be in Scotland.” “And I say, that I have so little desire to be there, that if my horse's head were over the Border, I would not give his tail the trouble of following. What should I do in Scotland?” “Provide for your safety, if I must speak plainly. Do you understand me now, Mr. Frank?” “Not a whit; you are more and more oracular.” “Then, on my word, you either mistrust me most unjustly, and are a better dissembler than Rashleigh Osbaldistone himself, or you know nothing of what is imputed to you; and then no wonder you stare at me in that grave manner, which I can scarce see without laughing.” “Upon my word of honour, Miss Vernon,” said I, with an impatient feeling of her childish disposition to mirth, “I have not the most distant conception of what you mean. I am happy to afford you any subject of amusement, but I am quite ignorant in what it consists.” “Nay, there's no sound jest after all,” said the young lady, composing herself; “only one looks so very ridiculous when he is fairly perplexed. But the matter is serious enough. Do you know one Moray, or Morris, or some such name?” “Not that I can at present recollect.” “Think a moment. Did you not lately travel with somebody of such a name?” “The only man with whom I travelled for any length of time was a fellow whose soul seemed to lie in his portmanteau.” “Then it was like the soul of the licentiate Pedro Garcias, which lay among the ducats in his leathern purse. That man has been robbed, and he has lodged an information against you, as connected with the violence done to him.” “You jest, Miss Vernon!” “I do not, I assure you--the thing is an absolute fact.” “And do you,” said I, with strong indignation, which I did not attempt to suppress, “do you suppose me capable of meriting such a charge?” “You would call me out for it, I suppose, had I the advantage of being a man--You may do so as it is, if you like it--I can shoot flying, as well as leap a five-barred gate.” “And are colonel of a regiment of horse besides,” replied I, reflecting how idle it was to be angry with her--“But do explain the present jest to me.”