“I think I see ye!” said I.  “And what’s more than all that:  if ye pass a bridge, it can tell no tales; but if we pass the firth, there’s the boat on the wrong side—­somebody must have brought it—­the country-side will all be in a bizz—–­”

“Man!” cried Alan, “if I make a boat, I’ll make a body to take it back again!  So deave me with no more of your nonsense, but walk (for that’s what you’ve got to do)—­and let Alan think for ye.”

All night, then, we walked through the north side of the Carse under the high line of the Ochil mountains; and by Alloa and Clackmannan and Culross, all of which we avoided:  and about ten in the morning, mighty hungry and tired, came to the little clachan of Limekilns.  This is a place that sits near in by the water-side, and looks across the Hope to the town of the Queensferry.  Smoke went up from both of these, and from other villages and farms upon all hands.  The fields were being reaped; two ships lay anchored, and boats were coming and going on the Hope.  It was altogether a right pleasant sight to me; and I could not take my fill of gazing at these comfortable, green, cultivated hills and the busy people both of the field and sea.

For all that, there was Mr. Rankeillor’s house on the south shore, where I had no doubt wealth awaited me; and here was I upon the north, clad in poor enough attire of an outlandish fashion, with three silver shillings left to me of all my fortune, a price set upon my head, and an outlawed man for my sole company.

“O, Alan!” said I, “to think of it!  Over there, there’s all that heart could want waiting me; and the birds go over, and the boats go over—­all that please can go, but just me only!  O, man, but it’s a heart-break!”

In Limekilns we entered a small change-house, which we only knew to be a public by the wand over the door, and bought some bread and cheese from a good-looking lass that was the servant.  This we carried with us in a bundle, meaning to sit and eat it in a bush of wood on the sea-shore, that we saw some third part of a mile in front.  As we went, I kept looking across the water and sighing to myself; and though I took no heed of it, Alan had fallen into a muse.  At last he stopped in the way.

“Did ye take heed of the lass we bought this of?” says he, tapping on the bread and cheese.

“To be sure,” said I, “and a bonny lass she was.”

“Ye thought that?” cries he.  “Man, David, that’s good news.”

“In the name of all that’s wonderful, why so?” says I.  “What good can that do?”

“Well,” said Alan, with one of his droll looks, “I was rather in hopes it would maybe get us that boat.”

“If it were the other way about, it would be liker it,” said I.

“That’s all that you ken, ye see,” said Alan.  “I don’t want the lass to fall in love with ye, I want her to be sorry for ye, David; to which end there is no manner of need that she should take you for a beauty.  Let me see” (looking me curiously over).  “I wish ye were a wee thing paler; but apart from that ye’ll do fine for my purpose—­ye have a fine, hang-dog, rag-and-tatter, clappermaclaw kind of a look to ye, as if ye had stolen the coat from a potato-bogle.  Come; right about, and back to the change-house for that boat of ours.”