enough I slept in; he was gone with
the sheep. I said a prayer for him and took the road.

It was shower and shine all day. I footed on my way as fast as I could,
for the cut was still tender. Towards night I neared a little village
and saw an old man sitting on the doorstep reading. I asked him if I was
on the right road to Dundonald. He replied I was, but it was too far
away to reach before dark, and he put a few questions to me. Asking me
to sit beside him we had a talk. Did you ever see that book? holding out
the one he was reading. 'It is A Cloud of Witnesses, and gives the story
of the days of persecution. I wish every man in Scotland knew what it
contains, for there would be more of the right stuff among us. I was
just reading, for the hundredth time, I suppose, the trial of Marion
Harvie, and how he who was afterwards James King of England consented to
send her, a poor frail woman, to the gallows'. From the Covenanters he
passed to politics. He was a weaver and did not like the government,
telling me, seeing where I came from, I must grow up to be a Glasgow
radical. Seeing I was homeless, he said he would fend me for the night,
and, going into the house, he brought out a coggie of milk and a barley
scone. When I had finished, he took me to the byre and left me in a
stall of straw, telling me to leave early for his wife hated gangrel
bodies and would not, when she came in, rest content, if she knew there
was anybody in the stable. When daylight came it was raining. I started
without anybody seeing me from the house. I was soon wet to the skin,
but I trudged on, saying to myself every now and then You're a
Scotchman, never say die. There were few on the road, and when I met a
postman and asked how far I was from Dundonald, his curt reply was, You
are in it. I was dripping wet and oh so perished with cold and hunger
that I made up my mind to stop at the first house I came to. As it
happened, it was a farm-house a little bit from the road. I went to the
kitchen-door where there was a hen trying to keep her chicks out of the
rain. There were voices of children at play and of a woman as if
crooning a babe to sleep. I stood a while before I ventured to knock.
There was no answer and after waiting a few minutes I knocked again. A
boy of my own age opened the door. An old woman came towards me and
asked what I wanted. I am cold, I said, and, please, might I warm
myself? She was deaf and did not catch what I said. 'Whose b