Walter Scott of Wauchope was one of the most popular men in Liddesdale.  He it was who had, by his own exertions, raised the Light Company of Roxburghshire Volunteers, a band of nearly a hundred men of fine physique and first-rate horsemanship, whose bearing was the admiration of everyone when the laird marched them into Hawick on that momentous night in 1804 when “Boney” was supposed to have landed on Scottish shores.  Mr. Scott’s services had not been forgotten.  A captain’s commission in the 1st Regiment of Roxburgh Local Militia now belonged to him, and he squared his shoulders with an air and gave the military salute to those on the road with whom he exchanged greetings.

It was a morning for only peace and goodwill to be abroad, and the laird rode on in cheerful frame, and put his horse to a canter along the turf.  But as he cantered, the good steed’s ears suddenly went back, he plunged, swerved, and answered his master’s voice and heels by standing stock-still, staring affrightedly at what at first, to his rider, seemed a mere limp, inanimate bundle of old clothing lying half in, half out of the ditch.  In a moment the laird was standing beside the mysterious heap, and found an old, white-haired man, grievously mishandled, with blood on his face, blood dabbling the dead leaves in the ditch, blood on the turf where the pure hoar-frost had lain.  There was but little life left in him, and it was not easy for him to explain his sorry plight when the words came only with hard-fought breathing, hoarse and low.

“She will pe a pedlar,” he said, “an’ she will haf peen robbed and murdered....  Och, so little she will pe hafing, and now all gone....  Ochone, ochone!” Gently the laird put his questions to the dying man.  The robbery had been committed only a short time before.  The assailant was a big man—­“a fery big man”—­an Irishman, and he could not have gone far.  Up again on his wondering steed sprang the laird, and at steeplechase pace rode on.  Near Birney-knowe he came in sight of his quarry, a powerful six-footer, but carrying too much flesh to do more than a good sprint without failing.  In a neighbouring field a ploughman with his pair of horses was turning up the rich brown loam. “Hup, Jess!  Woa-hi, Chairlie!” sounded his cheerful voice from over the dyke, above the jingle of his horses’ harness as they turned at the head-rig with their greedy following of screaming, white-winged gulls.

“Hi! Will Little!” shouted the laird.  “Leave the plough, lad!  There’s murder afoot the day!  Come and help catch the murderer!”