Jock came limping around the house. Alexander could not now abide the sight of this cripple who had spied, and had not shot some fashion of arrow! He said good-by and loosed Black Alan from the ash-tree and rode away. He would not tread the glen. His memory recoiled from it as from some Eastern glen of serpents. He and Black Alan went over the moors. And still it was early and he had his body strength back. He rode to Littlefarm.
Robin Greenlaw was in the field, coat off in the gay, warm weather. He came to Glenfernie's side, and the latter dismounted and sat with him under a tree. Greenlaw brought a stone jug and tankard and poured ale.
The laird drank. "That's good, Robin!" He put down the tankard. "Are you still a poet?"
"If I was so once upon a time, I hope I am so still. At any rate, I still make verses. And I see poems that I can never write."
"'Never'—how long a word that is!"
Greenlaw gazed at the workers in the field. "I met Mr. Strickland the other day. He says that you will travel again."
"'Travel'—yes."
"The Jardine Arms gets it from the Edinburgh road that Ian Rullock made a daring escape."
"He had always ingenuity and a certain sort of physical bravery."
"So has Lucifer, Milton says. But he's not Lucifer."