"Nought that I can do?—Be it so. But do you not fear the consequences of being found with one whose very name whispered in this lonely street would make the stones themselves rise up to apprehend him—on whose head half the men in Glasgow would build their fortune as on a found treasure, had they the luck to grip him by the collar—the sound of whose apprehension were as welcome at the Cross of Edinburgh as ever the news of a field stricken and won in Flanders?"
"And who then are you, whose name should create so deep a feeling of terror?" I replied.
"No enemy of yours, since I am conveying you to a place, where, were I myself recognised and identified, iron to the heels and hemp to the craig would be my brief dooming."
I paused and stood still on the pavement, drawing back so as to have the most perfect view of my companion which the light afforded me, and which was sufficient to guard against any sudden motion of assault.
"You have said," I answered, "either too much or too little—too much to induce me to confide in you as a mere stranger, since you avow yourself a person amenable to the laws of the country in which we are—and too little, unless you could show that you are unjustly subjected to their rigour."
As I ceased to speak, he made a step towards me. I drew back instinctively, and laid my hand on the hilt of my sword.
"What!" said he—"on an unarmed man, and your friend?"
"I am yet ignorant if you are either the one or the other," I replied; "and to say the truth, your language and manner might well entitle me to doubt both."
"It is manfully spoken," replied my conductor; "and I respect him whose hand can keep his head.—I will be frank and free with you—I am conveying you to prison."
"To prison!" I exclaimed—"by what warrant or for what offence?—You shall have my life sooner than my liberty—I defy you, and I will not follow you a step farther."