I found the hermit awaiting me. He bade me "Good e'en" and asked if I had had anything to eat. I told him that I had already satisfied my hunger.
"That is a pity," he said, "for the ravens have been kind to-day and have brought me a little Galloway cheese forby twa or three girdles-fu' o' guid, crisp oatcake; by the morn they'll no' be so tasty, so just try a corner and a wee bit o' cheese along with me."
Little loth, I assented, and soon I was enjoying some of his toothsome store. I ate sparingly, for I had already blunted the edge of my hunger and I had no wish to abuse his generosity. As I nibbled the crisp oatcake I thought of the girl I had seen on the hill-side, and in a fit of curiosity said: "I have been thinking that though the Lord sent the ravens to feed Elijah, he has been sending somebody bonnier and blither to feed you--in fact no raven, but a heather-lintie!"
He looked at me quickly, and replied: "I am no' sayin' yea or nay; and at any rate you have no call to exercise your mind with what doesna concern you."
The rebuke was a just one and I was sorry for my offence.
When our meal was over, he took me by the arm. "What say you to a walk by the light o' the moon?" he asked. "I'll guarantee you will fall into no more bogs, for I know every foot of these hills as well as I know the palm of my hand."
"Your pleasure is mine," I said. So we set out, and as we went he talked.
"Last night," he said, "you told me your story; to-night, if you care to listen, I will tell you mine.
"I am an older man by far than you are, and I will never see the three-score and ten again. As my days so has my strength been. I have seen a feck of things and taken part in many a deed that will help to make history. You may think I boast myself, but listen. My name is Alexander Main, and, as you ken, I am a minister of the Kirk of Scotland. The year 1638 saw me a student in the Glasgow College--that is long syne, and they were stirring times. Ye may have heard of that great gathering in the Greyfriars Kirk at Edinburgh on the last day of February 1638, when we swore and put our names to the National Covenant. It was a great day. The crowd filled kirk and yard. Well do I mind the gallant Warriston reading the Covenant, much of which had come glowing from his own pen--but most of all I mind the silence that fell upon us when the reading was over. Then the good Earl of Sutherland stepped forward and put his name to it, and man followed man, each eager to pledge himself to the bond. Some of us, I mind well, wrote after their names the words 'Till death,' and others signed it with their blood."
"And what might this Covenant be?" I asked.