Sure's
daith he didnae ken. Aye, he left Redbraes mebbes twa hour sin', in the
darkening. No amount of hectoring, no quantity of loudly--shouted oaths
could move the grieve from his tale. "A wuss a _did_ ken whaur he is,"
he said, "but _a_ dinnae ken." Finally he had to be given up as
hopeless, and the dragoons rode back, a little shamefacedly and cursing
their luck. John Allen, his honest face still full of scared amazement,
rode slowly on. Every now and again he would check his horse, look round
and listen, mutter to himself bewilderedly, shake his head, and go on
once more. The clatter of the dragoons had not long died away when,
coming towards him from the other direction, he heard the regular beat
of a horse's hoofs. It was no strange horse, he soon realised, nor was
the rider a stranger. The gay smile that his face so often wore
irradiated Home of Polwarth's when he heard his servant's greeting.
"Eh, losh me, Polwarth!" he said, "a never had sic a gliff in a' _ma_
days! Here a' em, thinking aye that ye was riding no far ahint us, and
when a hears a gallopin' an' turns roond, ye've santed, an' here's a
pack o' thae bluidy dragoons that wad blast ye black in the face an'
speir the inside oot o' a wheelbarra. Man, where were ye? It's naething
short o' a meericle?"
Nor was it much short of a miracle, as Sir Patrick acknowledged.
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