"But who would know me now?" asked the guest.

"Few, few indeed!" replied the landlord, gazing at the dark features of
his companion, where hardship, peril, and dissipation had each left their
traces. "No, you are not like the slender boy of fifteen, who stood on the
hill by moonlight to take a last look at his father's cottage. There were
tears in your eyes then; and, as often as I remember them, I repent that I
did not turn you back, instead of leading you on."

"Tears, were there? Well, there have been few enough since," said his
comrade, pressing his eyelids firmly together, as if even then tempted to
give way to the weakness that he scorned. "And, for turning me back, Hugh,
it was beyond your power. I had taken my resolution, and you did but show
me the way to execute it."

"You have not inquired after those you left behind," observed Hugh
Crombie.

"No--no; nor will I have aught of them," exclaimed the traveller, starting
from his seat, and pacing rapidly across the room. "My father, I know, is
dead, and I have forgiven him. My mother--what could I hear of her but
misery? I will hear nothing."

"You must have passed the cottage as you rode hitherward," said Hugh. "How
could you forbear to enter?"

"I did not see it," he replied. "I closed my eyes, and turned away my
head."