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.

'I should fear not,' said Arthur. 'I had not seen or heard of her for
some time before I left home, and that is now three years since. She
looked very old then, and I remember my mother saying she was not fit to
come her rounds.'

'She wasna that auld,' returned the merchant gravely; 'but she had led
sic a life as falls to the lot of nae wife in this country.'

Arthur had almost said, 'Whose fault was that?' but he durst not offend a
possible protector, and softened his words into, 'It is strange to find
you here, and a Mohammedan too.'

'Hoots, Maister Arthur, let that flea stick by the wa'. We maun do at
Rome as Rome does, as ye'll soon find'--and disregarding Arthur's
exclamation--'and the bit bairn, I thocht ye said he was no Scot, when I
was daundering awa' at the French yestreen.'

'No, he is half-Irish, half-French, eldest son of Count Burke, a good
Jacobite, who got into trouble with the Prince of Orange, and is high in
the French service.'

'And what gars your father's son to be _secretaire_, as ye ca'd it, to
Frenchman or Irishman either?'

'Well, it was my own fault. I was foolish enough to run away from school
to join the rising