He had, however, to be patient.  The sunrise orisons were no sooner paid than there was a continual resort to the tent of the merchant, who was found sitting there calmly smoking his long pipe, and ready to offer the like, also a cup of coffee, to all who came to traffic with him.  He seemed to have a miscellaneous stock of coffee, tobacco, pipes, preparations of sugar, ornaments in gold and silver, jewellery, charms, pistols, and a host of other articles in stock, and to be ready to purchase or barter these for the wax, embroidered handkerchiefs, yarn, and other productions and manufactures of the place.  Not a single purchase could be made on either side without a tremendous haggling, shouting, and gesticulating, as if the parties were on the verge of coming to blows; whereas all was in good fellowship, and a pleasing excitement and diversion where time was of no value to anybody.  Arthur began to despair of ever gaining attention.  He was allowed to wander about as he pleased within the village gates, and Ulysse was apparently quite happy with the little children, who were beautiful and active, although kept dirty and ragged as a protection from the evil eye.

Somehow the engrossing occupation of every one, especially of the only two creatures with whom he could converse, made Arthur more desolate than ever.  He lay down under an ilex, and his heart ached with a sick longing he had not experienced since he had been with the Nithsdales, for his mother and his home—­the tall narrow-gabled house that had sprung up close to the grim old peel tower, the smell of the sea, the tinkling of the burn.  He fell asleep in the heat of the day, and it was to him as if he were once more sitting by the old shepherd on the braeside, hearing him tell the old tales of Johnnie Armstrong or Willie o’ the wudspurs.

Actually a Scottish voice was in his ears, as he looked up and saw the turbaned head of Yusuf the merchant bending over him, and saying—­’Wake up, my bonny laddie; we can hae our crack in peace while these folks are taking their noonday sleep.  Awed, and where are ye frae, and how do you ca’ yersel’?’

‘I am from Berwickshire,’ responded the youth, and as the man started—­ ‘My name is Arthur Maxwell Hope of Burnside.’

‘Eh!  No a son of auld Sir Davie?’

‘His youngest son.’

The man clasped his hands, and uttered a strange sound as if in the extremity of amazement, and there was a curious unconscious change of tone, as he said—­’Sir Davie’s son!  Ye’ll never have heard tell of Partan Jeannie?’ he added.

‘A very old fishwife,’ said Arthur, ’who used to come her rounds to our door?  Was she of kin to you?’

’My mither, sir.  Mony’s the time I hae peepit out on the cuddie’s back between the creels at the door of the braw house of Burnside, and mony’s the bannock and cookie the gude lady gied me.  My minnie’ll no be living thae noo,’ he added, not very tenderly.