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There was nothing for it but to take another into their secret. John Allen, the grieve, was sent for, and fainted dead away when he heard that his master was in the house instead of being in safety in foreign lands, and that the dragoons were even then on his tracks. He, too, had visions of a figure dangling from a gibbet, and of a head on the Nether Bow–and small blame to him, worthy man.

It was then the darkening, and Allen’s instructions were at once to tell his fellow-servants that he had received orders to sell three horses at Morpeth Fair, and to be off on the road without further delay.

Sir Patrick took farewell of his wife and of Grisell, climbed out of a window, met the grieve near the stables, and was off in the darkness, with as little noise as might be. It was a sorrowful parting, but when, not long after he was gone, the dragoons rode up to Redbraes, Lady Home and her daughter were glad indeed that he was away.

Somewhat regretting their prolonged enjoyment of the hospitality of Home of Halyburton, the search-party thoroughly ransacked every hole and corner of Redbraes Castle. Inside they could find no trace nor pick up one crumb of information, but from an outside servant they heard of John Allen’s departure, Morpeth way, with three horses.

“Horses, indeed! for Morpeth Fair?” the dragoon officer hooted at the thought. “Boot and saddle, lads!” he called to his men; “we’ll run the traitorous fox to earth long before he gets to Berwick!” At a canter they were off down the drive, the contents of Halyburton’s case-bottles still warming their hearts and giving extra zest to their enterprise. It was a dark night, and they were thick black woods that they rode between, but they had not ridden very many miles when they were able to make out, some way in front of them, the outlines of two horses.

“We’ve got him, lads!” cried the officer; “run him down at last. Worry, worry, worry!”

But instead of the horses in front breaking into a gallop at the sound of pursuit, they were pulled up short by the roadside, and instead of there being two riders there was only one, leading an unsaddled horse. More exasperating than all to the ardour of the hunters was the fact that in place of the thin, clever face of Sir Patrick Home being the one to confront them, the round, scared face of a Berwickshire peasant stared at them in dismay. In vain did the officer question, bully, cross-examine. John Allen was unshakeable. He was gaun tae Morpeth Fair tae sell the horse. Na, he didnae ken where the maister was. Sure’s daith he didnae ken. Aye, he left Redbraes mebbes twa hour sin’, in the darkening. No amount of hectoring, no quantity of loudly–shouted oaths could move the grieve from his tale. “A wuss a did ken whaur he is,” he said, “but a dinnae ken.” Finally he had to be given up as hopeless, and the dragoons rode back, a little shamefacedly and cursing their luck. John Allen, his honest face still full of scared amazement, rode slowly on. Every now and again he would check his horse, look round and listen, mutter to himself bewilderedly, shake his head, and go on once more. The clatter of the dragoons had not long died away when, coming towards him from the other direction, he heard the regular beat of a horse’s hoofs. It was no strange horse, he soon realised, nor was the rider a stranger. The gay smile that his face so often wore irradiated Home of Polwarth’s when he heard his servant’s greeting.

“Eh, losh me, Polwarth!” he said, “a never had sic a gliff in a’ ma days! Here a’ em, thinking aye that ye was riding no far ahint us, and when a hears a gallopin’ an’ turns roond, ye’ve santed, an’ here’s a pack o’ thae bluidy dragoons that wad blast ye black in the face an’ speir the inside oot o’ a wheelbarra. Man, where were ye? It’s naething short o’ a meericle?”