“Them that canna tell the truth,” he observed to myself as we went on again, “should be aye mindfu’ to leave an honest, handy lee behind them. If folk dinna ken what ye’re doing, Davie, they’re terrible taken up with it; but if they think they ken, they care nae mair for it than what I do for pease porridge.”
As we had first made inland, so our road came in the end to lie very near due north; the old Kirk of Aberlady for a landmark on the left; on the right, the top of the Berwick Law; and it was thus we struck the shore again, not far from Dirleton. From North Berwick west to Gillane Ness there runs a string of four small islets, Craigleith, the Lamb, Fidra, and Eyebrough, notable by their diversity of size and shape. Fidra is the most particular, being a strange grey islet of two humps, made the more conspicuous by a piece of ruin; and I mind that (as we drew closer to it) by some door or window of these ruins the sea peeped through like a man’s eye. Under the lee of Fidra there is a good anchorage in westerly winds, and there, from a far way off, we could see the Thistle riding.
The shore in face of these islets is altogether waste. Here is no dwelling of man, and scarce any passage, or at most of vagabond children running at their play. Gillane is a small place on the far side of the Ness, the folk of Dirleton go to their business in the inland fields, and those of North Berwick straight to the sea-fishing from their haven; so that few parts of the coast are lonelier. But I mind, as we crawled upon our bellies into that multiplicity of heights and hollows, keeping a bright eye upon all sides, and our hearts hammering at our ribs, there was such a shining of the sun and the sea, such a stir of the wind in the bent-grass, and such a bustle of down-popping rabbits and up-flying gulls, that the desert seemed to me like a place alive. No doubt it was in all ways well chosen for a secret embarkation, if the secret had been kept; and even now that it was out, and the place watched, we were able to creep unperceived to the front of the sandhills, where they look down immediately on the beach and sea.
But here Alan came to a full stop.
“Davie,” said he, “this is a kittle passage! As long as we lie here we’re safe; but I’m nane sae muckle nearer to my ship or the coast of France. And as soon as we stand up and signal the brig, it’s another matter. For where will your gentry be, think ye?”
“Maybe they’re no’ come yet,” said I. “And even if they are, there’s one clear matter in our favour. They’ll be all arranged to take us, that’s true. But they’ll have arranged for our coming from the east and here we are upon their west.”
“Ay,” says Alan, “I wish we were in some force, and this was a battle, we would have bonnily outmanœuvred them! But it isna, Davit; and the way it is, is a wee thing less inspiring to Alan Breck. I swither, Davie.”
“Time flies, Alan,” said I.
“I ken that,” said Alan. “I ken naething else, as the French folk say. But this is a dreidful case of heids or tails. O! if I could but ken where your gentry were!”
“Alan,” said I, “this is no’ like you. It’s got to be now or never.”