"Plague on them--they're thick as blackberries on both sides o' the Border," growled the host. "For one, there is Nathan Wylie, the writer at--" began the hostess. "No--no--I go not before _him_!" said I, with a pang of sorrow in my heart, as I thought of Ruth, whose sweet image came upbraidingly to my memory. "Well--who next?" asked the corporal, while buckling on his sword. "Sir Basil Gauntlet, at the hall--or his nephew, the young Laird that is to be." "Worse still!" I exclaimed, passionately; "I shall not go before them either." "Zounds, but you are hard to please," said Charters as he eyed me keenly, but with something of commiseration too. "What is your name?" "That I shall tell the magistrate," I replied, evasively, not having yet thought of a _nom de guerre_. Then the corporal asked me-- "Is this Sir Basil a relation, a connection, or what?" The landlord laughed while eyeing my scurvy appearance, as if he thought it very unlikely I could be either; my breast burned with suppressed mortification and rage, but I continued calmly, "It matters little--I go not before him." "You are regularly enlisted, my lad," said the corporal, soothingly, "and must go before some one." "Try the rector," said I. "We have no rectors in Scotland," said the landlord, bluntly. "Well, there is one over the Border, a few miles from this----" "On the road to Rothbury--good," said Charters. "He is a justice of the peace, and such a one! Odsbud! he sent a child, four years old, to hard labour for having a tame pheasant for a pet." "How?" "As a poacher," added Boniface, with a rough malediction. "Will _he_ do?" asked the Corporal. "Yes," said I, briefly; "and now let us begone." "Bravo! Now, Kirkton--brandy and water--boot and saddle, and let us be off. Our new comrade shall share our horses alternately, for we have nearly twenty miles to travel to-day before we reach head-quarters." As the troopers brought from the stable to the inn door their two stately grey chargers, in all the trappings of a heavy dragoon regiment, with saddle-cloth, scarlet valise, long holsters, powerful bits, and chain bridles, an old horse that was passing, heavily laden with the wares of an itinerant basket-maker, pricked up his ears, and switched his short shorn tail, and seemed to eye us wistfully. "That is an old trooper," said Kirkton; "by Jove, the poor animal actually recognises our red coats, and, doubtless, his heart warms to the colour. Landlord, a feed of oats, and here is the money for it--a feed of oats for the old nag-tailed trooper. He has been a heavy dragoon horse--see here are the white spots where the carbine has galled him. Well, well! it makes one sad to think that the dashing horse, which has perhaps borne a brave fellow in many a charge, which has fed from his hand, and slept beside him in the bivouac, comes down to the sand cart and knacker's yard at last!"