It was time that I was cutting loose from this ill-omened company and
continuing my road Edinburgh-wards. We were lying in a wide trough of
the Pentland Hills, which I well remembered. The folk of the plains
called it the Cauldstaneslap, and it made an easy path for sheep and
cattle between the Lothians and Tweeddale. The camp had been snugly
chosen, for, except by the gleam of a fire in the dark, it was
invisible from any distance. Muckle John was so filled with his
vapourings that I could readily slip off down the burn and join the
southern highway at the village of Linton.

I was on the verge of going when I saw that which pulled me up. A rider
was coming over the moor. The horse leaped the burn lightly, and before
I could gather my wits was in the midst of the camp, where Muckle John
was vociferating to heaven.

My heart gave a great bound, for I saw it was the girl who had sung to
me in the rain. She rode a fine sorrel, with the easy seat of a skilled
horsewoman. She was trimly clad in a green riding-coat, and over the
lace collar of it her hair fell in dark, clustering curls. Her face was
grave, like a determined child's; but the winds of the morning had
whipped it to a rosy colour, so that into that clan of tatterdemalions
she rode like Proserpine descending among the gloomy Shades. In her
hand she carried a light riding-whip.

A scream from the women brought Muckle John out of his rhapsodies. He
stared blankly at the slim girl who confronted him with hand on hip.

"What seekest thou here, thou shameless woman?" he roared.