“Obviously,” he said to his wife and daughter, “we must tempt Providence no longer.  It is now fit and necessary for me to go off and leave you.”  Later in the day, news brought by the carrier confirmed him in his resolution.  Baillie of Jerviswoode had been hanged in Edinburgh on the previous day, and his head now adorned a spike on the Nether Bow.  The death of his best friend was a great shock to Sir Patrick, perhaps an even greater one to Lady Home, and to little Grisell, for could not their imagination readily paint a picture of their dear “traitor” hanging where his friend had hung.  No time was to be lost, and Grisell at once began work on her father’s wardrobe, and in the coming days and nights, with anxious fingers, made such alterations in his clothing as seemed necessary for a disguise.

Meantime a friend and neighbour of Sir Patrick’s, John Home of Halyburton, had “jaloused” that his namesake was not hidden so far afield as some imagined, and when, one cold January afternoon, he heard the clatter of hoofs on the high-road and saw the red coats of the dragoons, he had a stab at his heart at the thought of another good son of the Merse going to martyrdom.

“Where do you ride to-day?” he asked, when the party came up.

“To take Polwarth at Redbraes,” they said.

“Is it so?” said Home.  “Then I’ll go with you myself and be your guide.  But come your ways into the house and rest you a little, till I get ready for the road.”

Nothing loth, the troopers followed him, and were still contentedly testing the quality of the contents of his big case-bottles when a groom galloped off to Redbraes.  Halyburton’s message to Lady Home of Polwarth was a brief one, for when she opened his envelope there was nothing there to read—­only a little feather fluttered out, giving as plainly the advice to instant flight as pages of words might have done.

There was nothing for it but to take another into their secret.  John Allen, the grieve, was sent for, and fainted dead away when he heard that his master was in the house instead of being in safety in foreign lands, and that the dragoons were even then on his tracks.  He, too, had visions of a figure dangling from a gibbet, and of a head on the Nether Bow—­and small blame to him, worthy man.

It was then the darkening, and Allen’s instructions were at once to tell his fellow-servants that he had received orders to sell three horses at Morpeth Fair, and to be off on the road without further delay.

Sir Patrick took farewell of his wife and of Grisell, climbed out of a window, met the grieve near the stables, and was off in the darkness, with as little noise as might be.  It was a sorrowful parting, but when, not long after he was gone, the dragoons rode up to Redbraes, Lady Home and her daughter were glad indeed that he was away.

Somewhat regretting their prolonged enjoyment of the hospitality of Home of Halyburton, the search-party thoroughly ransacked every hole and corner of Redbraes Castle.  Inside they could find no trace nor pick up one crumb of information, but from an outside servant they heard of John Allen’s departure, Morpeth way, with three horses.