“I promise.”
Hereupon the farmer, reaching out his hand, picked up the black silk neckcloth which he had laid aside, and with it firmly bound his own left wrist to the right wrist of his captive, talking in a grave, subdued tone as he did so.
“Nae doot the promise o’ a spy is hardly to be lippened to, but if I find that ye’re a dishonourable man, ye’ll find that I’m an uncomfortable prisoner to be tied to. Noo, git up, lad, an’ we’ll gang hame thegither.”
On rising, the first thing the trooper did was to turn and take a steady look at the man who had captured him in this singular manner.
“Weel, what d’ye think o’ me?” asked Andrew, with what may be termed a grave smile.
“If you want to know my true opinion,” returned Wallace, “I should say that I would not have thought, from the look of you, that you could have taken mean advantage of a sleeping foe.”
“Ay—an’ I would not have thought, from the look o’ you,” retorted Andrew, “that ye could hae sell’t yersel’ to gang skulkin’ aboot the hills as a spy upon the puir craters that are only seekin’ to worship their Maker in peace.”
Without further remark Andrew Black, leaving his coat and plaid to keep company with the sword and stick, led his prisoner down the hill.
Andrew’s cottage occupied a slight hollow on the hillside, which concealed it from every point of the compass save the high ground above it. Leading the trooper up to the door, he tapped gently, and was promptly admitted by some one whom Wallace could not discern, as the interior was dark.
“Oh, Uncle Andrew! I’m glad ye’ve come, for Peter hasna come back yet, an’ I’m feared somethin’ has come ower him.”