Daylight showed us how solitary¹ the inn stood. It was plainly hard upon the sea, yet out of all view of it, and beset² on every side with scabbit hills of sand. There was, indeed, only one thing in the nature of a prospect³, where there stood out over a brae the two sails of a windmill, like an ass⁵'s ears, but with the ass quite hidden. It was strange (after the wind rose, for at first it was dead calm) to see the turning and following of each other of these great sails behind the hillock. Scarce any road came by there; but a number of footways travelled among the bents in all directions up to Mr. Bazin's door. The truth is, he was a man of many trades, not any one of them honest, and the position of his inn was the best of his livelihood⁷. Smugglers frequented it; political agents and forfeited⁸ persons bound across the water came there to await their passages; and I daresay there was worse behind, for a whole family might have been butchered in that house and nobody the wiser.  
I slept little and ill. Long ere it was day, I had slipped from beside my bedfellow, and was warming myself at the fire or walking to and fro before the door. [pg 383]Dawn broke mighty⁹ sullen¹⁰; but a little after, sprang up a wind out of the west, which burst the clouds, let through the sun, and set the mill to the turning. There was something of spring in the sunshine, or else it was in my heart; and the appearing of the great sails one after another from behind the hill, diverted me extremely. At times I could hear a creak of the machinery¹¹; and by half-past eight of the day, Catriona began to sing in the house. At this I would have cast my hat in the air; and I thought this dreary¹², desert place was like a paradise.
 
For all which, as the day drew on and nobody came near, I began to be aware of an uneasiness that I could scarce explain. It seemed there was trouble afoot; the sails of the windmill, as they came up and went down over the hill, were like persons spying; and outside of all fancy, it was surely a strange neighbourhood and house for a young lady to be brought to dwell in.
 
At breakfast, which we took late, it was manifest that James More was in some danger or perplexity; manifest that Alan was alive to the same, and watched him close; and this appearance of duplicity upon the one side and vigilance upon the other, held me on live coals. The meal was no sooner over than James seemed to come to a resolve, and began to make apologies. He had an appointment of a private nature in the town (it was with the French nobleman, he told me) and we would please excuse him till about noon. Meanwhile, he carried [pg 384]his daughter aside to the far end of the room, where he seemed to speak rather earnestly and she to listen without much inclination¹³.
 
"I am caring less and less about this man James," said Alan. "There's something no right with the man James, and I wouldnae wonder but what Alan Breck would give an eye to him this day. I would like fine to see yon French nobleman, Davie; and I daresay you could find an employ to yoursel, and that would be to speer at the lassie for some news of your affair. Just tell it to her plainly--tell her ye're a muckle ass at the off-set; and then, if I were you, and ye could do it naitural, I would just mint to her I was in some kind of a danger; a' weemenfolk likes that."
 
"I cannae lee, Alan, I cannae do it naitural," says I, mocking him.
 
"The more fool you!" says he. "Then ye'll can tell her that I recommended it; that'll set her to the laughing; and I wouldnae wonder but what that was the next best. But see to the pair of them! If I didnae feel just sure of the lassie, and that she was awful pleased and chief with Alan, I would think there was some kind of hocus-pocus about yon."
 
"And is she so pleased with ye, then, Alan?" I asked.
 
"She thinks a heap of me," says he. "And I'm no like you: I'm one that can tell. That she does--she thinks a heap of Alan. And troth! I'm thinking a [pg 385]good deal of him mysel; and with your permission, Shaws, I'll be getting a wee yont amang the bents, so that I can see what way James goes."
 
One after another went, till I was left alone beside the breakfast table; James to Dunkirk, Alan dogging him, Catriona up the stairs to her own chamber¹⁴. I could very well understand how she should avoid to be alone with me; yet was none the better pleased with it for that, and bent⁶ my mind to entrap¹⁵ her to an interview before the men returned. Upon the whole, the best appeared to me to do like Alan. If I was out of view among the sand hills, the fine morning would decoy her out; and once I had her in the open, I could please myself.
 
No sooner said than done; nor was I long under the bield of a hillock before she appeared at the inn door, looked here and there, and (seeing nobody) set out by a path that led directly seaward, and by which I followed her. I was in no haste to make my presence known; the further she went I made sure of the longer hearing to my suit; and the ground being all sandy, it was easy to follow her unheard. The path rose and came at last to the head of a knowe. Thence I had a picture for the first time of what a desolate¹⁶ wilderness¹⁷ that inn stood hidden in; where was no man to be seen, nor any house of man, except just Bazin's and the windmill. Only a little further on, the sea appeared and two or three ships upon it, pretty as a drawing. One of [pg 386]these was extremely close in to be so great a vessel¹⁸; and I was aware of a shock of new suspicion, when I recognized the trim of the Seahorse. What should an English ship be doing so near in France? Why was Alan brought into her neighbourhood, and that in a place so far from any hope of rescue? and was it by accident, or by design, that the daughter of James More should walk that day to the seaside?
 
Presently I came forth¹⁹ behind her in the front of the sand hills and above the beach. It was here long and solitary; with a man-o'-war's boat drawn²⁰ up about the middle of the prospect, and an officer in charge and pacing the sands like one who waited. I sat immediately down where the rough grass a good deal covered me, and looked for what should follow. Catriona went straight to the boat; the officer met her with civilities; they had ten words together; I saw a letter changing hands; and there was Catriona returning. At the same time, as if this was all her business on the Continent, the boat shoved off and was headed for the Seahorse. But I observed the officer to remain behind and disappear among the bents.
 
I liked the business little; and the more I considered of it, liked it less. Was it Alan the officer was seeking? or Catriona? She drew near with her head down, looking constantly on the sand, and made so tender a picture that I could not bear to doubt her innocency²¹. The next, she raised her face and recognised me; [pg 387]seemed to hesitate, and then came on again, but more slowly, and I thought with a changed colour. And at that thought, all else that was upon my bosom²²--fears, suspicions, the care of my friend's life--was clean swallowed up; and I rose to my feet and stood waiting her in a drunkenness of hope.
 
I gave her "good-morning" as she came up, which she returned with a good deal of composure.
 
"Will you forgive my having followed you?" said I.
 
"I know you are always meaning kindly," she replied; and then, with a little outburst, "But why will you be sending money to that man? It must not be."
 
"I never sent it for him," said I, "but for you, as you know well."
 
"And you have no right to be sending it to either one of us," said she. "David, it is not right."
 
"It is not, it is all wrong," said I; "and I pray God he will help this dull fellow (if it be at all possible), to make it better. Catriona, this is no kind of life for you to lead, and I ask your pardon for the word, but yon man is no fit father to take care of you."
 
"Do not be speaking of him, even!" was her cry.
 
"And I need speak of him no more, it is not of him that I am thinking, O, be sure of that!" says I. "I think of the one thing. I have been alone now this long time in Leyden; and when I was by way of at my studies, still I was thinking of that. Next Alan came, and I went among soldier-men to their big dinners; [pg 388]and still I had the same thought. And it was the same before, when I had her there beside me. Catriona, do you see this napkin at my throat? You cut a corner from it once and then cast it from you. They're your colours now; I wear them in my heart. My dear, I cannot want you. O, try to put up with me!"
 
I stepped before her so as to intercept²⁴ her walking on.
 
"Try to put up with me," I was saying, "try and bear me with a little."
 
Still she had never the word, and a fear began to rise in me like a fear of death.
 
"Catriona," I cried, gazing on her hard, "is it a mistake again? Am I quite lost?"
 
She raised her face to me, breathless.
 
"Do you want me, Davie, truly?" said she, and I scarce could hear her say it.
 
"I do that," said I. "O, sure you know it--I do that."
 
"I have nothing left to give or to keep back," said she. "I was all yours from the first day, if you would have had a gift of me!" she said.
 
This was on the summit of a brae; the place was windy and conspicuous²⁵, we were to be seen there even from the English ship; but I kneeled down before her in the sand, and embraced her knees, and burst into that storm of weeping that I thought it must have broken me. All thought was wholly beaten from my [pg 389]mind by the vehemency of my discomposure. I knew not where I was, I had forgot why I was happy; only I knew she stooped, and I felt her cherish me to her face and bosom, and heard her words out of a whirl.
 
"Davie," she was saying, "O, Davie, is this what you think of me? Is it so that you were caring for poor me? O, Davie, Davie!"
 
With that she wept also, and our tears were commingled²⁶ in a perfect gladness.
 
It might have been ten in the day before I came to a clear sense of what a mercy had befallen me; and sitting over against her, with her hands in mine, gazed in her face, and laughed out loud for pleasure like a child, and called her foolish and kind names. I have never seen the place look so pretty as these bents by Dunkirk; and the windmill sails, as they bobbed over the knowe, were like a tune²⁷ of music.
 
I know not how much longer we might have continued to forget all else besides ourselves, had I not chanced upon a reference to her father, which brought us to reality.
 
"My little friend," I was calling her again and again, rejoicing to summon up the past by the sound of it, and to gaze across on her, and to be a little distant--"My little friend, now you are mine altogether; mine for good, my little friend; and that man's no longer at all."
 
There came a sudden whiteness in her face, she plucked her hands from mine.
 
[pg 390]"Davie, take me away from him!" she cried. "There's something wrong; he's not true. There will be something wrong; I have a dreadful terror here at my heart. What will he be wanting at all events with that King's ship? What will this word be saying?" And she held the letter forth. "My mind misgives²⁸ me, it will be some ill to Alan. Open it, Davie--open it and see."
 
I took it, and looked at it, and shook my head.
 
"No," said I, "it goes against me, I cannot open a man's letter."
 
"Not to save your friend?" she cried.
 
"I cannae tell," said I. "I think not. If I was only sure!"
 
"And you have but to break the seal!" said she.
 
"I know it," said I, "but the thing goes against me."
 
"Give it here," said she, "and I will open it myself."
 
"Nor you neither," said I. "You least of all. It concerns your father, and his honour, dear, which we are both misdoubting. No question but the place is dangerous-like, and the English ship being here, and your father having word of it, and yon officer that stayed ashore²⁹! He would not be alone either; there must be more along with him; I daresay we are spied upon this minute. Ay, no doubt, the letter should be opened; but somehow, not by you nor me."
 
I was about this far with it, and my spirit very much overcome with a sense of danger and hidden enemies, [pg 391]when I spied Alan, come back again from following James and walking by himself among the sand hills. He was in his soldier's coat, of course, and mighty fine; but I could not avoid to shudder³⁰ when I thought how little that jacket would avail him, if he were once caught and flung in a skiff, and carried on board of the Seahorse, a deserter, a rebel, and now a condemned³¹ murderer.
 
"There," said I, "there is the man that has the best right to open it: or not, as he thinks fit."
 
With which I called upon his name, and we both stood up to be a mark for him.
 
"If it is so--if it be more disgrace--will you can bear it?" she asked, looking upon me with a burning eye.
 
"I was asked something of the same question when I had seen you but the once," said I. "What do you think I answered? That if I liked you as I thought I did--and O, but I like you better!--I would marry you at his gallows³²' foot."
 
The blood rose in her face; she came close up and pressed upon me, holding my hand: and it was so that we awaited Alan.
 
He came with one of his queer smiles. "What was I telling ye, David?" says he.
 
"There is a time for all things, Alan," said I, "and this time is serious. How have you sped? You can speak out plain before this friend of ours."
 
[pg 392]"I have been upon a fool's errand," said he.
 
"I doubt we have done better than you, then," said I; "and, at least, here is a great deal of matter that you must judge of. Do you see that?" I went on, pointing to the ship. "That is the Seahorse, Captain Palliser."
 
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