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Chapter 7
Sheshowedmehowtowraptheplaidaroundmyshoulders,andwhenIleftthatcottageIwasthelivingimageofthekindofScotsmanyouseeintheillustrationstoBurns’spoems.ButatanyrateIwasmoreorlessclad.
Itwasaswell,fortheweatherchangedbeforemiddaytoathickdrizzleofrain.Ifoundshelterbelowanoverhangingrockinthecrookofaburn,whereadriftofdeadbrackensmadeatolerablebed.ThereImanagedtosleeptillnightfall,wakingverycrampedandwretched,withmyshouldergnawinglikeatoothache.Iatetheoatcakeandcheesetheoldwifehadgivenmeandsetoutagainjustbeforethedarkening.
Ipassoverthemiseriesofthatnightamongthewethills.Therewerenostarstosteerby,andIhadtodothebestIcouldfrommymemoryofthemap.TwiceIlostmyway,andIhadsomenastyfallsintopeat-bogs.Ihadonlyabouttenmilestogoasthecrowflies,butmymistakesmadeitnearertwenty.Thelastbitwascompletedwithsetteethandaverylightanddizzyhead.ButImanagedit,andintheearlydawnIwasknockingatMrTurnbull’sdoor.Themistlaycloseandthick,andfromthecottageIcouldnotseethehighroad.
MrTurnbullhimselfopenedtome—soberandsomethingmorethansober.Hewasprimlydressedinanancientbutwell-tendedsuitofblack;hehadbeenshavednotlaterthanthenightbefore;heworealinencollar;andinhislefthandhecarriedapocketBible.Atfirsthedidnotrecognizeme.
“Whaeareyethatcomesstravaigin’hereontheSabbathmornin’?”heasked.
