“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, I turned down a lane, and could see the man and woman that I’d spoken to stopping to look after me.
I was wrong in the thinking that I should reach my uncle’s house unknown. At all events, I was known after I’d entered the house, though there was naebody there. The first thing I did was to stir up the embers o’ the fire, for I was chilled, though it was a warm summer’s day; then I cut a slice from the loaf, and took a mug o’ milk from the pan; an’ then went to the ben, to see after washing myself, and go on to my ain auld room, to look what had come o’ my claes.