spoke, it was my fixed determination, though I was a hundred miles from
saying it--to meet Flora on Monday night as a fellow-guest in Mr.
Robbie's house.

I gave her my money--it was, of course, only paper I had brought. I gave
it her, to be her marriage-portion, I declared.

"Not so bad a marriage-portion for a private soldier," I told her,
laughing, as I passed it through the bars.

"O Anne, and where am I to keep it?" she cried. "If my aunt should find
it! What would I say?"

"Next your heart," I suggested.

"Then you will always be near your treasure," she cried, "for you are
always there!"

We were interrupted by a sudden clearness that fell upon the night. The
clouds dispersed: the stars shone in every part of the heavens; and,
consulting my watch, I was startled to find it already hard on five in
the morning.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE SABBATH-DAY

It was indeed high time I should be gone from Swanston; but what I was
to do in the meanwhile was another question. Rowley had received his
orders last night: he was to say that I had met a friend, and Mrs.
McRankine was not to expect me before morning. A good enough tale in
itself; but the dreadful pickle I was in made it out of the question. I
could not go home till I had found harbourage, a fire to dry my clothes
at, and a bed where I might lie till they were ready.

Fortune favoured me again. I had scarce got to the top of the first hill
when I spied a light on my left, about a furlong away. It might be a
case of sickness; what else it was likely to be--in so rustic a
neighbourhood, and at such an ungodly time of the morning--was beyond my
fancy. A faint sound of singing became audible, and gradually swelled as
I drew near, until at last I could make out the words, which were
singularly appropriate both to the hour and to the condition of the
singers. "The cock may craw, the day may daw," they sang; and sang it
with such laxity both in time and tune, and such sentimental
complaisance in the expression, as assured me they had got far into the
third bottle at least.

I found a plain rustic cottage by the wayside, of the sort called
double, with a signboard over the door; and, the lights within streaming
forth and somewhat mitigating the darkness of the morning, I was enabled
to decipher the inscription: "The Hunters' Tryst, by Alexander Hendry.
Porter, Ales, and British Spirits. Beds."

My first knock put a period to the music, and a voice challenge