Grassmarket, kirk and kirkyard lay hidden behind and above the
crumbling grandeur of noble halls and mansions that had fallen to
the grimiest tenements of Edinburgh's slums. From the end of the
bridge approach there was a glimpse of massive walls, of pointed
windows, and of monumental tombs through a double-leafed gate of
wrought iron, that was alcoved and wedged in between the ancient
guildhall of the candlemakers and a row of prosperous little
shops in Greyfriars Place.

A rock-rimmed quarry pit, in the very heart of Old Edinburgh, the
Grassmarket was a place of historic echoes. The yelp of a little
dog there would scarce seem worthy of record. More in harmony
with its stirring history was the report of the time-gun. At one
o'clock every day, there was a puff of smoke high up in the blue
or gray or squally sky, then a deafening crash and a back fire
fusillade of echoes. The oldest frequenter of the market never
got used to it. On Wednesday, as the shot broke across the babel
of shrill bargaining, every man in the place jumped, and not one
was quicker of recovery than wee Bobby. Instantly ashamed, as an
intelligent little dog who knew the import of the gun should be,
Bobby denied his alarm in a tiny pink yawn of boredom. Then he
went briskly about his urgent business of finding Auld Jock.

The market was closed. In five minutes the great open space was
as empty of living men as Greyfriars kirkyard on a week-day.
Drovers and hostlers disappeared at once into the cheap and noisy
entertainment of the White Hart Inn that fronted the market and
set its squalid back against Castle Rock. Farmers rapidly
deserted it for the clean country. Dwellers in the tenements
darted up wynds and blind closes, climbed twisting turnpike