He slackened the reins, and away he went to Craig Fernie. Counting by
years, the pony was twenty, and the pony's driver was seventy. Counting
by vivacity and spirit, two of the most youthful characters in Scotland
had got together that afternoon in the same chaise.

An hour more wore itself slowly out; and nothing had passed Arnold on
the cross-roads but a few stray foot-passengers, a heavy wagon, and a
gig with an old woman in it. He rose again from the heather, weary of
inaction, and resolved to walk backward and forward, within view of his
post, for a change. At the second turn, when his face happened to be set
toward the open heath, he noticed another foot-passenger--apparently a
man--far away in the empty distance. Was the person coming toward him?

He advanced a little. The stranger was doubtless advancing too, so
rapidly did his figure now reveal itself, beyond all doubt, as the
figure of a man. A few minutes more and Arnold fancied he recognized it.
Yet a little longer, and he was quite sure. There was no mistaking the
lithe strength and grace of _that_ man, and the smooth easy swiftness
with which he covered his ground. It was the hero of the coming
foot-race. It was Geoffrey on his way back to Windygates House.

Arnold hurried forward to meet him. Geoffrey stood still, poising
himself on his stick, and let the other come up.

"Have you heard what has happened at the house?" asked Arnold.

He instinctively checked the next question as it rose to his lips.
There was a settled defiance in the expression of Geoffrey's face, which
Arnold was quite at a loss to understand. He looked like a man who