oman. "Ye've been long away frae this
toon, I'm thinkin'."

"Frae this _village_," says I. "Slievochan's na' a toon."

"'Deed, but it is, though, since the auld laird's death, and the new
street was built, two years' ago; when Donal' Miller an' Ivan Dhu bought
the land that it stands on for a portion for son an' daughter--but there
they come."

"Just one moment," I cried, clutching the man by the arm. "Will ye
kindly tell me the day an' the year?"

"What day, mon?" says he, lookin' at me in doubt.

"This present day o' the month and the year. Is it auchteen hunnerd
saxteen?"

"Hoot, mon!" cried the fellow, gettin' away frae me. "Nae; but the
third June, auchteen hunnerd twenty-sax. Ha'e ye been asleep these ten
years?"

I had!

It rushed upon me a' o' a sudden. My claes like tinder; the bed o' dry
leaves; my shrivelled boots; the bacca in powder. There, in that cave
o' the cliff I'd slept in a trance, with ne'er a dream to know o', an'
the world had gone round while I stoppit still. There was a soun' o'
talking an' laugh in' at the kirk door, an' then a shout, as a band o'
fishermen came out, all in their best rig; an' then a shoal of pretty
lassies, an' then my uncle Ivan, an' Mistress Miller--(Old Donald was
deed, then, I thought); and then the bailie an' my Aunt Tibbie; and,
after all, Rab an' Maggie--he looking a grand, noble man, for he was no
longer a boy; but wi' his father's strength, and Aunt Tibbie's soft,
tender smile; an' she--Maggie, I mean--older an' paler; but wi' a light
in her een, an' a lovin' look upon her face, that made me forget mysel'
in joy to think how they had come together at last, whatever might have
happened in the ten years.

But what would happen if I should be seen by the bailie, starin' there
at the church porch, in my rags and unkempt hair an' beard--I, that had
perhaps been sought for, and might be suspectit?--Ah! that was
dreadfu'!--suspectit o' murder! for where was Rory Smith?--and who could
tell the true tale but me?

I might be recognised in a minute; for how did I know whether I was
altered?--and I could remember half the men who were there shouting, and
half the women claverin' in the kirkyard. I crept away.

The best thing I could do was to make off down to the fisher village on
the beach; for everybody had come up to the wedding, and I could gain my
uncle's house without meeting any one that I knew. So crammin' what was
left of my bacca into my pipe,