It was near dark of a January day when we rode at last into the town of Dunkirk. We left our horses at the post, and found a guide to Bazin’s inn, which lay beyond the walls. Night was quite fallen, so that we were the last to leave that fortress, and heard the doors of it close behind us as we passed the bridge. On the other side there lay a lighted suburb, which we thridded for a while, then turned into a dark lane, and presently found ourselves wading in the night among deep sand where we could hear a bullering of the sea. We travelled in this fashion for some while, following our conductor mostly by the sound of his voice; and I had begun to think he was perhaps misleading us, when we came to the top of a small brae, and there appeared out of the darkness a dim light in a window.
“Voilà l’auberge à Bazin,” says the guide.
Alan smacked his lips. “An unco lonely bit,” said he, and I thought by his tone he was not wholly pleased.
A little after, and we stood in the lower story of that house, which was all in the one apartment, with a stair leading to the chambers at the side, benches and tables by the wall, the cooking fire at the one end of it, and shelves of bottles and the cellar-trap at the other. Here Bazin, who was an ill-looking, big man, told us the Scottish gentleman was gone abroad he knew not where, but the young lady was above, and he would call her down to us.
I took from my breast that kerchief wanting the corner, and knotted it about my throat. I could hear my heart go; and, Alan patting me on the shoulder with some of his laughable expressions, I could scarce refrain from a sharp word. But the time was not long to wait. I heard her step pass overhead, and saw her on the stair. This she descended very quietly, and greeted me with a pale face and a certain seeming of earnestness, or uneasiness, in her manner that extremely dashed me.
“My father, James More, will be here soon. He will be very pleased to see you,” she said. And then of a sudden her face flamed, her eyes lightened, the speech stopped upon her lips; and I made sure she had observed the kerchief. It was only for a breath that she was discomposed; but methought it was with a new animation that she turned to welcome Alan. “And you will be his friend Alan Breck?” she cried. “Many is the dozen times I will have heard him tell of you; and I love you already for all your bravery and goodness.”
“Well, well,” says Alan, holding her hand in his and viewing her, “and so this is the young lady at the last of it! David, you’re an awful poor hand of a description.”
I do not know that ever I heard him speak so straight to people’s hearts; the sound of his voice was like song.
“What? will he have been describing me?” she cried.
“Little else of it since I ever came out of France!” says he, “forbye a bit of a speciment one night in Scotland in a shaw of wood by Silvermills. But cheer up, my dear! ye’re bonnier than what he said. And now there’s one thing sure: you and me are to be a pair of friends. I’m a kind of a henchman to Davie here; I’m like a tyke at his heels: and whatever he cares for, I’ve got to care for too—and by the holy airn! they’ve got to care for me! So now you can see what way you stand with Alan Breck, and ye’ll find ye’ll hardly lose on the transaction. He’s no’ very bonny, my dear, but he’s leal to them he loves.”