Gibbie lifted his cap, and walked quietly on towards the other end of Daur-street. Donal dared not follow, for Mr. Sclater stood between, looking out. Presently however the door shut with a great bang, and Donal was after Gibbie like a hound. But Gibbie had turned a corner, and was gone from his sight. Donal turned a corner too, but it was a wrong corner. Concluding that Gibbie had turned another corner ahead of him, he ran on and on, in the vanishing hope of catching sight of him again; but he was soon satisfied he had lost him,—nor him only, but himself as well, for he had not the smallest idea how to return, even as far as the minister’s house. It rendered the matter considerably worse that, having never heard the name of the street where he lodged but once—when the minister gave direction to the porter, he had utterly forgotten it. So there he was, out in the night, astray in the streets of a city of many tens of thousands, in which he had never till that day set foot—never before having been in any larger abode of men than a scattered village of thatched roofs. But he was not tired, and so long as a man is not tired, he can do well, even in pain. But a city is a dreary place at night, even to one who knows his way in it—much drearier to one lost—in some respects drearier than a heath—except there be old mine-shafts in it.
“It’s as gien a’ the birds o’ a country had creepit intil their bit eggs again, an’ the day was left bare o’ sang!” said the poet to himself as he walked. Night amongst houses was a new thing to him. Night on the hillsides and in the fields he knew well; but this was like a place of tombs—what else, when all were dead for the night? The night is the world’s graveyard, and the cities are its catacombs. He repeated to himself all his own few ballads, then repeated them aloud as he walked, indulging the fancy that he had a long audience on each side of him; but he dropped into silence the moment any night-wanderer appeared. Presently he found himself on the shore of the river, and tried to get to the edge of the water; but it was low tide, the lamps did not throw much light so far, the moon was clouded, he got among logs and mud, and regained the street bemired, and beginning to feel weary. He was saying to himself what ever was he to do all the night long, when round a corner a little way off came a woman. It was no use asking counsel of her, however, or of anyone, he thought, so long as he did not know even the name of the street he wanted—a street which as he walked along it had seemed interminable. The woman drew near. She was rather tall, erect in the back, but bowed in the shoulders, with fierce black eyes, which were all that he could see of her face, for she had a little tartan shawl over her head, which she held together with one hand, while in the other she carried a basket. But those eyes were enough to make him fancy he must have seen her before. They were just passing each other, under a lamp, when she looked hard at him, and stopped.
“Man,” she said, “I hae set e’en upo’ your face afore!”
“Gien that be the case,” answered Donal, “ye set e’en upo’ ’t again.”
“Whaur come ye frae?” she asked.
“That’s what I wad fain speir mysel’,” he replied. “But, wuman,” he went on, “I fancy I hae set e’en upo’ your e’en afore—I canna weel say for yer face. Whaur come ye frae?”
“Ken ye a place they ca’—Daurside?” she rejoined.
“Daurside’s a gey lang place,” answered Donal; “an’ this maun be aboot the tae en’ o’ ’t, I’m thinkin’.”
“Ye’re no far wrang there,” she returned; “an’ ye hae a gey gleg tongue i’ yer heid for a laad frae Daurside.”
“I never h’ard ’at tongues war cuttit shorter there nor ither gaits,” said Donal; “but I didna mean ye ony offence.”