When we came to the bank on the other side, the farmer led the way to a hedge and we passed through a gap into a field across which we hurried together. In a few minutes we found ourselves beside a little farm-house.
"Come awa' ben," said the farmer's wife, throwing the door open. "It's no' a very grand wedding feast, but it'll dae to set you on the road, and it shall never be said that the guid-wife o' Nunholm lacks in hospitality."
We entered the kitchen and found an ample supper awaiting us. Mary had endeared herself, and little wonder, to these good folks during the two days she had spent with them, and they were full of anxiety for her safety.
We made all the haste we could through the meal, and when it was nearly over the door was thrown wide to the wall and a shock-headed lad thrust his body in. The farmer turned to him: "Is a' richt, Ebenezer?" he asked.
"Ay, faither, there's no' a trooper between here and Dumfries."
We finished our meal, and bade the good wife and her husband an affectionate farewell, the former insisting on Mary's wrapping herself in her own best plaid.
"Ye've a long road to travel, lassie," she said, "and ye maunna catch cauld. Tak' it as a keepsake, and if ye're ever back in these pairts, dinna forget tae come and see me."
I thanked the good man and his wife for their kindness to us, and, Hector leading, we went out into the night.
CHAPTER XLIV
"QUO VADIS, PETRE?"