What road?—whither were they going? Ruthven indicated his intended destination, but did not desire to return to Greenholm, where he had changed his dress; and he added that he wished his route to be taken, so far as practicable, by paths not commonly frequented, to avoid any other mischance. The gaberlunzie was ready to accompany him by any route.
They left the Deadman’s Holm without attracting much notice, and were speedily in the midst of solitudes. As the day wore to its close, they made a halt on the edge of a wood, and what Harthill’s wallet yet contained, in the shape of viands, formed a substantial repast. This done, the journey was resumed while the sun was setting.
How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds,
Like the blood he predicts.
Soon, through the fading lustre above Sol’s ocean-bed, Hesperus, the lover’s star, sparkled brightly. Our wayfarer’s path now led near a sluggish stream which skirted a hilly chain, and beyond the heights lay a village, where, as Harthill said, they might find lodgement for the night; but it had this disadvantage, that it was part of the barony pertaining to Altoncroft’s kinsman, the newly-made Sheriff, and, therefore, Ruthven thought that their more prudent course would be to seek a less questionable place of rest. But, in short, to tell the truth, he was secretly desirous of parting, as soon as might be, with Willie, and of pursuing his course alone to Berwick, where he might obtain shipping for France—a country which afforded opportunities, to friendless and adventurous young Scots like himself of carving out their fortunes with their swords.
The twilight darkened, and the path grew wilder. Occasionally the harsh screams of birds of prey smote on the ear, and seemed to chill the gaberlunzie’s blood.
“I dinna like the cries o’ thae birds ava—they aye bode ill,” he said. “Nae doubt they think to pyke our banes belyve. Shue! shue! ye evil emissaries! Our Lady help us! was yon a groan? Heard you naething, master?”
“It sounded like the fall of a fragment of rock from yonder cliff,” answered Ruthven, with indifference.
Harthill shook his head, as if dubious of the explanation. His mind engrained with superstitious frailty, he began to hear uncanny sounds all around him. Every sough of the wind among the brackens was a dread presage. Hurrying his steps, he frequently left Ruthven in the rear; and to every half-jocular remonstrance of the youth, whose strength of limb was fast failing, Willie had but one apology:—