The beggar had watched her face narrowly while he spoke for the slightest flicker of expression that might indicate the way her feelings were turning.
“He was fechtin’ wi’ Captain Logie,” he continued boldly, “a fell man yon—ye’ll ken him, yer leddyship?”
“By name,” said Christian.
“A’m thinkin’ it was frae him that he got the clour on ’s heed. A’ gie’d him ma guid whisky bottle, an’ a’ got water to him frae a well. A’ ca’d him awa’ frae the roadside—he didna ken wha would be aifter him ye see—an’ a’ gar’d a clatterin’ auld wife at the muir side gie’s a shelter yon nicht. A’ didna’ leave the callant, ma’ leddy, till a’ got a shelt to him. He’s to Edinburgh. A’ tell’t him wha ’d get him a passage to Leith—a’m an Aberbrothock man, mysel’, ye ken.”
“And did he send you to me?”
“Aye, did he,” said he, lying boldly.
There was no sign of emotion, none even of surprise, on her face. Her heart had beaten hard as the beggar talked, and the weight of wrath and pain that she had carried since she had parted with Archie began to lighten. He had listened to her—he had not gone against her. How deep her words had fallen into his heart she could not tell, but deep enough to bring him to grips with the man who had made the rift between them.
“Are you sure of what you say?” she asked quickly; “did you see them fight?”
“Na, na, but ’twas the lad himsel’ that tell’t me. He was on the ship.”
“He was on the ship?”