me, is grand, and David here will make poems on
it. It's a healthy country, and the cobbler has been bending too
assiduously over broken shoes of late, so the fresh air and the
exercise will do him good."

"Losh, your majesty!" cried the cobbler, in dismay, "I'm no horseman.
I never rode any four-legged thing but a cobbler's bench, and that
side-saddle fashion."

"Oh, you'll have learnt when we reach the Border," said the king, with
a laugh. "Before two days are past you'll be riding as well as Sir
David, who is at present the worst horseman in all Scotland."

"Pegasus is the steed I yearn to ride," returned the poet, with a wry
face.

"Yes, and even it sometimes throws you, David. You'll never be the
Psalmist your namesake was. Well, we'll look on it as agreed. Flemming
shall be purse-bearer, and so our tour will be an economical one. Here
is a purse well filled. You will look after the drover's costumes,
make all disbursements, and take care that you do not betray us by
undue lavishness."

Thus it came about that three supposed drovers took their way to the
Border by a route which drovers were never known to travel before,
and, besides this, they were travelling empty-handed towards England,
whereas, real drovers faced the south with their herds before them,
and the north with those herds sold or stolen. Not one of the three
had in his vocabulary a single word pertaining to the cattle trade,
and every man with whom they spoke knew at once that, whatever else
they might be, they were not drovers, and so the ill-fated three went
blundering through the free-booters' country, climbing hills and
descending dales, and frightening honest folk with the questions they
asked; questions about men whose names should be spoken in a whisper,
and even then with a look of fear over the shoulder. Innkeepers who
saw them approach with delight, watched them leave with relief,
thanking God that no raider had happened inside to hear their innocent
inquiries; yet the three themselves were enjoying an interesting and
instructive journey, and the king had come to the conclusion that the
devil was not so black as he was painted.

At last, they stumbled into a hostelry kept by a man whose name was
Armstrong. Their horses were taken care of and the trio sat down to a
hearty meal, as had been their luck all along the Border.

"Landlord, does this meat come from England?" asked the king.

The landlord caught his breath. He stood stock