That is the collie’s bark, and yonder figure is no doubt that of his master. He advances, and the moon shimmers brightly on the pleasant face and snow-white beard of an old man.
“Welcome, stranger. You’ve lost your way. My dog came to tell me. Come back and share my humble supper, then I will conduct you home.”
I thought it strange to be addressed in such good English. But I was not reassured. Was this a wizard, or a spectre—the spirit of this haunted wood?
“Back!” I cried, with a shudder; “back among goblins!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed, and I could not help noticing that his laugh was precisely the same as that I had heard in the hut.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but my cockatoos have been talking to you from behind the scenes. Come back, sir, it is all right. See, our dogs are playing together.”
That was true. Bob and the collie were already the best of friends.
From the very moment he mentioned the word “cockatoos,” I felt somewhat ashamed of myself.
So back I went, and shared the shepherd’s soup, and we were soon enjoying a very interesting conversation.
I told him all about myself and caravan, and he explained who he was. A shepherd by choice, because a lover of Nature. A wizard according to some, a poet according to others, because his verses which, he said, were as rough as the heather and the granite rocks on the hillside, found entrée to the Glasgow papers. After supper, he lit a great oil-lamp: we had hitherto had only the fire-light.