Insomuch that, embarrassed by attentions so pervading and multifarious, my Lady Barrasdaile caught up Betty’s cloak of homespun, a hooded garment for country wear, and, muffled in its ample folds, went a-walking. The road, bordered by shady trees, led up a hill, and, lured by the sunset glory, and joying, moreover, to stretch her limbs, cramped by the long journey, my lady ascended the hill and, reaching the top, had paused to admire the view, when she became aware of two horsemen approaching from the opposite direction, and instantly apprehending them to be highwaymen, she slipped aside into an adjacent thicket, waiting for them to pass. Now as she stood thus, seeing but unseen, the mysterious Fates decreed that Sir John Dering, reaching the hilltop in turn, should rein in his horse within a yard of her, to glance round about him upon the peaceful countryside, little dreaming of the bright eyes that watched him so keenly, or the ears that hearkened so inquisitively. “A sweet prospect, Hector!” he exclaimed; “fair and chaste and yet a little sad. ’Tis like looking deep into the eyes of a good woman—if there be such! It fills the soul with a sense of unworthiness and sorrow for the folly o’ the wasted years.” “Aye, John! An’ fower pistols in oor holsters an’ twa in my pockets gi’e us six shot in case o’ eeventualities.” “The wasted years!” murmured Sir John, musing gaze upon the distant horizon. “’Tis a night to grieve in, Hector, to yearn for better things.” “Aye! And though six shot is fair I’m wishin’ ye carried a rale sword like my Andrew here,’stead o’ yon bodkin!” “How then,” smiled Sir John, rousing; “are you expecting battle, murder and sudden death, Hector?” “A dinna say no or aye t’ that, Johnnie man, forbye these French roads be aye ill-travellin’, an’ I was ever a cautious body, y’ ken. ’Tis peety ye left Corporal Rob behind; he’s a fair hand wi’ pistol or whinger, I mind. However, let us push on ere it be dark.” “Nay, there’s the moon rising yonder, Hector.” “The moon—and what o’t, John? I’m for having my legs under a table and something savoury on’t, lad.” “Then do you ride forward, Hector, and order supper—there is an inn down yonder, I remember; I’ll wait for the moon to rise——” “Mune-rise? I’fegs, lad, she’ll do’t very weel wi’ oot ye, I’m thinkin’!” “Aye, but I’m minded to dream awhile, Hector; the moon ever stirs my imagination——” “Hoot-toot! De’il awa’ wi’ y’r dreamin’ an’ imaginationin’! ’Tis mysel’ wad tak’ ye for a puir, moonstruck daftie if I didna ken ye for John Dering and son o’ your father!” “If,” sighed Sir John, “if, Hector, you could suggest an apt rhyme for ‘soul,’ now, I should take it kindly ... though, to be sure, ‘dole’ might do at a pinch.” “Umph-humph!” snorted General Sir Hector MacLean, and urged his horse on down the hill. Being alone, Sir John dismounted, and tethering his animal, seated himself on grassy bank and gave himself up to introspective reverie.