“Yes, the moment I told your friend,” said Wallace, “that you had sent me to him, and that I was one of those who had good reason to conceal myself from observation, he gave me a hearty shake of the hand and accepted my offer of service; all the more that, having already some knowledge of his craft, I did not require teaching. So he gave me an apron and set me to work at once. I came straight from the forge just as I left off work to see what you would think of my disguise.”
“Ye’ll do, ye’ll do,” returned Mrs Black, with a nod of approval. “Yer face an’ hands need mair washin’ than my pussie gies her nose! But wheesht! I hear a fit on the stair. It’ll be Quentin Dick. I sent him oot for a red herrin’ or twa for supper.”
As she spoke, Quentin entered with a brown paper parcel, the contents of which were made patent by means of scent without the aid of sight.
The shepherd seemed a little disconcerted at sight of a stranger, for, as Wallace stood up, the light did not fall on his face; but a second glance sufficed to enlighten him.
“No’ that bad,” he said, surveying the metamorphosed shepherd, “but I doot yer auld friends the dragoons wad sune see through ’t—considerin’ yer size an’ the soond o’ yer voice.”
So saying he proceeded to place the red herrings on a gridiron, as if he were the recognised cook of the establishment.
Presently Bruce himself—Mrs Black’s friend the blacksmith—made his appearance, and the four were soon seated round a supper of oat-cakes, mashed potatoes, milk, and herring. For some time they discussed the probability of Wallace being recognised by spies as one who had attended the conventicle at Irongray, or by dragoons as a deserter; then, as appetite was appeased, they diverged to the lamentable state of the country, and the high-handed doings of the Privy Council.
“The Airchbishop cam’ to the toon this mornin’,” remarked Mrs Black, “so there’ll be plenty o’ torterin’ gaun on.”
“I fear you’re right,” said Bruce, who, having sojourned a considerable time in England, had lost much of his northern language and accent. “That horrible instrument, the boot, was brought this very morning to my smiddy for repair. They had been so hard on some poor wretch, I suppose, that they broke part of it, but I put a flaw into its heart that will force them to be either less cruel or to come to me again for repairs!”
“H’m! if ye try thae pranks ower often they’ll find it oot,” said Quentin. “Sherp is weel named, and if he suspects what ye’ve done, ye’ll get a taste of the buit yersel’.”