Salute to Adventurers | Page 6

fell presently asleep.
CHAPTER II.
OF A HIGH-HANDED LADY.
The storm died away in the night, and I awoke to a clear, rain-washed
world and the chill of an autumn morn. I was as stiff and sore as if I
had been whipped, my clothes were sodden and heavy, and not till I
had washed my face and hands in the burn and stretched my legs up the
hill-side did I feel restored to something of my ordinary briskness.
The encampment looked weird indeed as seen in the cruel light of day.
The women were cooking oatmeal on iron girdles, but the fire burned
smokily, and the cake I got was no better than dough. They were a
disjaskit lot, with tousled hair and pinched faces, in which shone
hungry eyes. Most were barefoot, and all but two--three were ancient
beldames who should have been at home in the chimney corner. I
noticed one decent-looking young woman, who had the air of a farm
servant; and two were well-fed country wives who had probably left a

brood of children to mourn them. The men were little better. One had
the sallow look of a weaver, another was a hind with a big, foolish face,
and there was a slip of a lad who might once have been a student of
divinity. But each had a daftness in the eye and something weak and
unwholesome in the visage, so that they were an offence to the fresh,
gusty moorland.
All but Muckle John himself. He came out of his tent and prayed till
the hill-sides echoed. It was a tangle of bedlamite ravings, with long
screeds from the Scriptures intermixed like currants in a bag-pudding.
But there was power in the creature, in the strange lift of his voice, in
his grim jowl, and in the fire of his sombre eyes. The others I pitied, but
him I hated and feared. On him and his kind were to be blamed all the
madness of the land, which had sent my father overseas and desolated
our dwelling. So long as crazy prophets preached brimstone and fire, so
long would rough-shod soldiers and cunning lawyers profit by their
folly; and often I prayed in those days that the two evils might devour
each other.
It was time that I was cutting loose from this ill-omened company and
continuing my road Edinburgh-wards. We were lying in a wide trough
of the Pentland Hills, which I well remembered. The folk of the plains
called it the Cauldstaneslap, and it made an easy path for sheep and
cattle between the Lothians and Tweeddale. The camp had been snugly
chosen, for, except by the gleam of a fire in the dark, it was invisible
from any distance. Muckle John was so filled with his vapourings that I
could readily slip off down the burn and join the southern highway at
the village of Linton.
I was on the verge of going when I saw that which pulled me up. A
rider was coming over the moor. The horse leaped the burn lightly, and
before I could gather my wits was in the midst of the camp, where
Muckle John was vociferating to heaven.
My heart gave a great bound, for I saw it was the girl who had sung to
me in the rain. She rode a fine sorrel, with the easy seat of a skilled
horsewoman. She was trimly clad in a green riding-coat, and over the
lace collar of it her hair fell in dark, clustering curls. Her face was

grave, like a determined child's; but the winds of the morning had
whipped it to a rosy colour, so that into that clan of tatterdemalions she
rode like Proserpine descending among the gloomy Shades. In her hand
she carried a light riding-whip.
A scream from the women brought Muckle John out of his rhapsodies.
He stared blankly at the slim girl who confronted him with hand on hip.
"What seekest thou here, thou shameless woman?" he roared.
"I am come," said she, "for my tirewoman, Janet Somerville, who left
me three days back without a reason. Word was brought me that she
had joined a mad company called the Sweet-Singers, that lay at the
Cauldstaneslap. Janet's a silly body, but she means no ill, and her
mother is demented at the loss of her. So I have come for Janet."
Her cool eyes ran over the assembly till they lighted on the one I had
already noted as more decent-like than the rest. At the sight of the girl
the woman bobbed a curtsy.
"Come out of it, silly Janet," said she on the horse; "you'll never make a
Sweet-Singer, for there's not a notion of a tune in your head."
"It's not singing that I seek,