“Ye seem to hae been takin’ lessons frae the cats lately, to judge from yer step,” said Black. “Shut the door, man, behint ye. There’s a draft i’ this place that’ll be like to gie ye the rheumatiz.”
The man obeyed, and, advancing silently, stood before the lathe. There was light enough to reveal the fact that his countenance was handsome, though bronzed almost to the colour of mahogany, while the lower part of it was hidden by a thick beard and a heavy moustache.
Black, who began to see that the strange visitor had nothing of the appearance of one sent to arrest him, said, in a half-humorous, remonstrative tone—
“Maybe ye’re a furriner, an’ dinna understan’ mainners, but it’s as weel to tell ye that I expec’ men to tak’ aff their bannets when they come into my hoose.”
Without speaking the visitor removed his cap. Black recognised him in an instant.
“Wull Wallace!” he gasped in a hoarse whisper, as he sprang forward and laid violent hands on his old friend. “Losh, man! are my een leein’? is’t possable? Can this be you?”
“Yes, thank God, it is indeed—”
He stopped short, for Andrew, albeit unaccustomed, like most of his countrymen, to give way to ebullitions of strong feeling, threw his long arms around his friend and fairly hugged him. He did not, indeed, condescend on a Frenchman’s kiss, but he gave him a stage embrace and a squeeze that was worthy of a bear.
“Your force is not much abated, I see—or rather, feel,” said Will Wallace, when he was released.
“Abated!” echoed Black, “it’s little need, in thae awfu’ times. But, man, your force has increased, if I’m no mista’en.”