pot-herbs. But there was no man to be seen, and I was about to retreat
and try the farm-town, when out of the doorway stepped a girl.

She was maybe sixteen years old, tall and well-grown, but of her face I
could see little, since she was all muffled in a great horseman's
cloak. The hood of it covered her hair, and the wide flaps were folded
over her bosom. She sniffed the chill wind, and held her head up to the
rain, and all the while, in a clear childish voice, she was singing.

It was a song I had heard, one made by the great Montrose, who had
suffered shameful death in Edinburgh thirty years before. It was a
man's song, full of pride and daring, and not for the lips of a young
maid. But that hooded girl in the wild weather sang it with a challenge
and a fire that no cavalier could have bettered.

"My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
Than purest monarchy."

"For if confusion have a part,
Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thy heart,
I'll never love thee more."

So she sang, like youth daring fortune to give it aught but the best.
The thing thrilled me, so that I stood gaping. Then she looked aside
and saw me.

"Your business, man?" she cried, with an imperious voice.