[39] In John Knox’s house at Edinburgh the writer examined a similar implement, as also at Sir Walter Scott’s house at Abbotsford. CHAPTER VI. _AN UNEXPECTED DISCLOSURE._ “Art thou Sir John Redfyrne?” enquired a man, who by his dress appeared to be a parochial or parish priest, as that worthy knight left Rougemont. “I am, what dost thou seek of me? I have little to do with cattle of thy breed.” “An aged woman,” replied the priest, not noticing the taunt, “is dying in a suburb of the city, and cannot pass in peace till she hath seen thee.” “What does it matter to me whether the old crone dies in peace or not?” “Verily thou art a hard-hearted man, but wilt thou look upon this signet?--she had confidence in its power to bring thee to her bed-side.” It was only his own crest upon a sapphire that he gazed upon, yet his heart gave a leap, and in spite of his self-command his blood flushed up, his face was crimson, and he evidently had to strive hard for mastery over himself. “Sir priest,” he said, “I am not well, and am subject to spasms of the heart, which will account for my seeming discomposure; lead me to her, I recognise the token.” The priest led on, and Sir John followed. Traversing Fore Street they approached the West Gate, which opened upon the bridge over the Exe. But here the priest turned to the left down a steep descent, into the purlieus of St. Mary of the Steppes.[40] The district was crowded then, as now, by the habitations of the lower classes, and was probably even more unsavoury than it is at present, for there was no drainage save that effected by the showers, which flushed the gutters. Such a shower had even now fallen when the priest entered a court between ricketty houses, once of some pretensions, but now tottering in ruin; it was crowded with squalid children, stopping up the gutters as they carried down the filth and refuse, and sailing little boats, or making mud pies. Amidst rags and wretchedness, the worthy guide led on; he was amidst his own flock; they were not a decent set, but they all respected him, and perhaps without his protection, the gay gentleman would not have gone on his way so unmolested. “Where art thou taking me to? I knew not such dens existed,” said the knight. “There are many worse; known perhaps only to the physician and the priest, now that ye have suppressed the sisterhoods; least of all to the constables, who dare not come hither save in troops; here the plague lies hidden in the winter, to burst out again each summer; here want, crime, disease, and vice fester together; here the fruit for the gallows is nourished; these be the orchards of the Father of Evil, where he grows of his own will many such apples as tempted Eve.” “And is _she_ here?” He did not mean Eve. “Even so.” “What brought her so low? she has long hidden from me.” “A guilty secret, perchance.”