"I've been thinkin' aboot your story. It's wonderfu' what bits o' gossip a packman can pick up on his roonds. Noo, you may be surprised to hear that I kent a' aboot the shootin' o' the minister up on the hills. I heard the story frae a trooper in the inn at Gatehouse. To him it was a great joke, for he saw naething in it but the silly action o' a daft auld man wha's ain stupidity brocht aboot his death. I wonder, if he had kent the hale story as you and me ken it, whether he would ha'e seen the beauty o't. I'm thinkin' maybe no', for to size up a thing like that richtly it maun be in a man's heart to dae the like himsel'. Ay, what a welcome the martyr would get on the ither side!" He paused for a moment, then continued: "And it's queer that I heard aboot you yersel' frae the same trooper. He tellt me that they cam' on the minister quite accidental-like; and that they werena' lookin' for him ava. They were oot on the hills huntin' for a deserter, wha I'm thinkin' was yersel'. They didna find you, he said. As a matter o' fact they believe that ye're deid--he said as muckle. So you may haud yer mind easy, for unless an' ill win' blaws and ye're recognised by ane o' yer fellow-troopers, ye're safe."
We trudged on steadily towards Dumfries. My heart was with Mary, and I did not speak. The packman was silent too--but while I was living in the past he apparently was looking into the future, for he said suddenly:
"It's a dangerous job I'm invitin' ye to tackle--a job that calls for the best wit o' a man, and muckle courage. I'm thinkin' you dinna lack for either, but time will show. Ay: it will that. As for me," he continued, after a pause, "I'm no' a religious man, but hidden in a corner o' my soul I ha'e a wee lamp o' faith. But it doesna aye burn as brichtly as it micht, and mony a time I sit by the roadside and compare the man I wad like to be wi' the man that I ken masel' to be; and it mak's me gey humble. But I aye tak' courage when I think o' Peter. He found the road through life a hard path and he tripped sae often ower the stanes that I sometimes think, like me, he maun ha'e had a tree-leg. But at the end he proved himsel' to be gold richt through, as dootless the Maister kent a' the while." His voice broke, and, looking at him, I saw tears streaming down his cheeks.
"But noo, a word in your ear. We're very near Dumfries noo. We'd better separate there, it will be safer. It behoves ye to ken where ye will fin' a lodgin'.
"In Mitchell's Close at the brig' end there lives a widda woman. She kens me weel. Her door is the second on the left frae the mooth o' the close. Her name is Phemie McBride, and when ye tell her ye're a frien' o' Hector the packman's she'll gie ye a welcome and ask nae questions. We should reach the toon before twa o'clock. You can ha'e bite and sup. I'll leave my pack at my lodgings and syne I'll be awa oot to Locharbriggs to pay my respects to the widda. At six o'clock or thereabouts I'll look for ye at the Toon Heid Port and we'll tak' a walk up the banks o' the Nith thegither. But, a word in yer lug. Dumfries is a stronghold o' the Covenanters; forby it is ane o' the heidquarters o' the persecutors. Lag himsel' has a hoose there--so ye maun be carefu'. Tak' a leaf oot my book, and oot o' the book o' even a wiser man than me--Be all things to all men, and mix neither yer politics nor yer drink. Haud your tongue, and if ye ha'e to speak, keep half yer counsel tae yersel'."
I thanked him and promised to exercise all caution. "And noo," he said, "for appearance' sake, I maun be Hector the packman, again," and going to a cottage by the wayside he knocked loudly at the door. I walked slowly on and in a moment or two he rejoined me.
With a twinkle in his eyes, he said: "Trade's bad the day. The guid-wife wanted neither a dream-book nor a pot o' salve. But that reminds me, it's gey near three months sin' I saw the widda. Noo you yersel' ha'e kent the spell o' love. I dinna want to touch ye on a sair spot, but if ye were in my place, what wad ye tak' tae yer sweetheart?"
I had no suggestion to offer, and said so.
"Weel," he said, "that's nae help. I'll juist ha'e a look at the jeweller's window in the High Street. Maybe I'll see something there: but failin' that there's aye a pot o' my balm."
"She will not need any of that," I answered. "Your coming will bring a colour to her cheeks without the aid of your magical salve."