Kidnapped | Page 7

my legs.
I sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked, the pleasanter that
country-side appeared; being all set with hawthorn bushes full of flowers; the fields
dotted with sheep; a fine flight of rooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and
climate; and yet the barrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy.
Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the ditch, but I lacked
the spirit to give them a good-e'en. At last the sun went down, and then, right up against
the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of smoke go mounting, not much thicker, as it seemed to
me, than the smoke of a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and
cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this comforted my heart.
So I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my direction. It was very
faint indeed to be the only way to a place of habitation; yet I saw no other. Presently it
brought me to stone uprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms
upon the top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished; instead of
gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across with a straw rope; and as there
were no park walls, nor any sign of avenue, the track that I was following passed on the
right hand of the pillars, and went wandering on toward the house.
The nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the one wing of a house
that had never been finished. What should have been the inner end stood open on the
upper floors, and showed against the sky with steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry.
Many of the windows were unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a
dove-cote.
The night had begun to fall as I got close; and in three of the lower windows, which were
very high up and narrow, and well barred, the changing light of a little fire began to
glimmer. Was this the palace I had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was
to seek new friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father's house on
Essen-Waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away, and the door
open to a beggar's knock!
I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one rattling with dishes,
and a little dry, eager cough that came in fits; but there was no sound of speech, and not a
dog barked.
The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece of wood all studded

with nails; and I lifted my hand with a faint heart under my jacket, and knocked once.
Then I stood and waited. The house had fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed
away, and nothing stirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again.
By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I could hear the ticking
of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the seconds; but whoever was in that house
kept deadly still, and must have held his breath.
I was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand, and I began
instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout out aloud for Mr. Balfour. I
was in full career, when I heard the cough right overhead, and jumping back and looking
up, beheld a man's head in a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of
the first-storey windows.
"It's loaded," said a voice.
"I have come here with a letter," I said, "to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Is he here?"
"From whom is it?" asked the man with the blunderbuss.
"That is neither here nor there," said I, for I was growing very wroth.
"Well," was the reply, "ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off with ye."
"I will do no such thing," I cried. "I will deliver it into Mr. Balfour's hands, as it was
meant I should. It is a letter of introduction."
"A what?" cried the voice, sharply.
I repeated what I had said.
"Who are ye, yourself?" was the next question, after a considerable pause.
"I am not ashamed of my name," said I. "They call me David Balfour."
At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle on