Archie, who seemed to himself to be slipping off the rounded edge of the world, made no reply.
The other sat eyeing him with perplexity and some impatience. He did not know what he wanted most—to get to Montrose, or to get news out of Flemington. The dogs lay down in the mud. Flemington kept his hand to his eyes for a minute, and then lifted his head again.
“The ship has surrendered,” he said, speaking with difficulty; “I have been on the high ground watching. She struck her flag. A French frigate——”
He stopped again. The road on which he sat was whirling down into illimitable space.
The other took in his plight. His coat, torn in his struggle with Logie, was full of whin-prickles, and the wet mud was caked on his legs. His soft, silky hair was flattened on his forehead.
“Ye’ve been fechtin’ yersel’, ma lad,” said Wattie. “Whaur hae ye been?”
“There’s a rebel force on Inchbrayock,” said Archie, with another effort; “I have been on the island. Yes, I’ve been fighting. A man recognized me—a man I saw at—on the road by Balnillo. They will be hunting me soon, and I have papers on me they must not find, and money—all the money I have. God knows how I am to get away! I must get to Aberbrothock.”
“What was ye sayin’ aboot the French?”
In broken sentences, and between his fits of giddiness, Archie explained the situation in the harbour, and the beggar listened, his bristly brows knit, his bonnet thrust back on his bald head; and his own best course of action grew clear to him. Montrose would soon be full of rebel soldiers, and though these might be generous audiences when merry with wine and loose upon the streets, their presence would make him no safer from Lord Balnillo. Wattie knew that the judge’s loyalty was beginning to be suspected, and that he might well have friends among the Prince’s officers, whose arrival might attract him to the town. And to serve Archie would be a good recommendation for himself with his employers, to say nothing of any private gratitude that the young man might feel.