In less than an hour I had turned a corner of hill and there before me lay the noble strath of Clyde. I am Tweedside born and will own no allegiance save to my own fair river, but I will grant that next to it there is none fairer than the upper Clyde. Were it not that in its lower course it flows through that weariful west country among the dull whigamores and Glasgow traders, it would be near as dear to me as my own well-loved Tweed. There it lay, glittering in light, and yellow with that strange yellow glow that comes on April waters. The little scrubs of wood were scarce seen, the few houses were not in the picture; nothing caught the eye save the giant mouldings of the hills, the severe barren vale, and the sinuous path of the stream.
I crossed it without any mishap, wading easily through at one of the shallows. There was no one in sight, no smoke from any dwelling; all was as still as if it were a valley of the dead. Only from the upper air the larks were singing, and the melancholy peewits cried ever over the lower moorlands. From this place my course was clear; I went up the prattling Wandel Burn, from where it entered the river, and soon I was once more lost in the windings of the dark hills. There is a narrow bridle-path which follows the burn, leading from Broughton in Tweeddale to Abington, so the way was easier walking.
And now I come to the relation of one of the strangest adventures of this time, which as often as I think upon it fills me with delight. For it was a ray of amusement in the perils and hardships of my wanderings.
A mile or more up this stream, just before the path begins to leave the waterside and strike towards the highlands, there is a little green cleuch, very fair and mossy, where the hills on either side come close and the glen narrows down to half a hundred yards. When I came to this place I halted for maybe a minute to drink at a pool in the rocks, for I was weary with my long wanderings.
A noise in front made me lift my head suddenly and stare before me. And there riding down the path to meet me was a man. His horse seemed to have come far, for it hung its head as if from weariness and stumbled often. He himself seemed to be looking all around him and humming some blithe tune. He was not yet aware of my presence, for he rode negligently, like one who fancies himself alone. As he came nearer I marked him more clearly. He was a man of much my own height, with a shaven chin and a moustachio on his upper lip. He carried no weapons save one long basket-handled sword at his belt. His face appeared to be a network of scars; but the most noteworthy thing was that he had but one eye, which glowed bright from beneath bushy brows. Here, said I to myself, is a man of many battles.
In a moment he caught my eye, and halted abruptly not six paces away. He looked at me quietly for some seconds, while his horse, which was a spavined, broken-winded animal at best, began to crop the grass. But if his mount was poor, his dress was of the richest and costliest, and much gold seemed to glisten from his person.
"Good day, sir," said he very courteously. "A fellow-traveller, I perceive." By this time I had lost all doubt, for I saw that the man was no dragoon, but of gentle birth by his bearing. So I answered him readily.
"I little expected to meet any man in this deserted spot, least of all a mounted traveller. How did you come over these hills, which if I mind right are of the roughest?"
"Ah," he said, "my horse and I have done queer things before this," and he fell to humming a fragment of a French song, while his eye wandered eagerly to my side.
Suddenly he asked abruptly: "Sir, do you know aught of sword-play?"