X.

The music of bagpipe, fife and drum brought them all out of Haddo's Hole

into High Street. It was the hour of the morning drill, and the soldiers

were marching out of the Castle. From the front of St. Giles, that

jutted into the steep thoroughfare, they could look up to where the

street widened to the esplanade on Castle Hill. Rank after rank of

scarlet coats, swinging kilts and sporrans, and plumed bonnets appeared.

The sun flashed back from rifle barrels and bayonets and from countless

bright buttons.

A number of the older laddies ran up the climbing street. Mr. Traill

called Bobby back and, with a last grip of Glenormiston's hand, set off

across the bridge. To the landlord the world seemed a brave place to be

living in, the fabric of earth and sky and human society to be woven of

kindness. Having urgent business of buying supplies in the markets at

Broughton and Lauriston, Mr. Traill put Bobby inside the kirkyard gate

and hurried away to get into his everyday clothing. After dinner, or

tea, he promised himself the pleasure of an hour at the lodge, to tell

Mr. Brown the wonderful news, and to show him Bobby's braw collar.

When, finally, he was left alone, Bobby trotted around the kirk, to

assure himself that Auld Jock's grave was unmolested. There he turned

on his back, squirmed and rocked on the crocuses, and tugged at the

unaccustomed collar. His inverted struggles, low growlings and furry

contortions set the wrens to scolding and the redbreasts to making

nervous inquiries. Much nestbuilding, tuneful courtship, and masculine

blustering was going on, and there was little police duty for Bobby.

After a time he sat up on the table-tomb, pensively. With Mr. Brown

confined, to the lodge, and Mistress Jeanie in close attendance upon him

there, the kirkyard was a lonely place for a sociable little dog; and

a soft, spring day given over to brooding beside a beloved grave, was

quite too heart-breaking a thing to contemplate. Just for cheerful

occupation Bobby had another tussle with the collar. He pulled it so far

under his thatch that no one could have guessed that he had a collar on

at all, when he suddenly righted himself and scampered away to the gate.

The music grew louder and came nearer. The first of the route-marching

that the Castle garrison practiced on occasional, bright spring

mornings was always a delightful surprise to the small boys and dogs

of Edinburgh. Usually the soldiers went down High Street and out to

Portobello on the sea. But a regiment of tough and wiry Highlanders

often took, by preference, the mounting road to the Pentlands to get a

whiff of heather in their nostrils.

On they came, band playing, colors flying, feet moving in unison with a

march, across the viaduct bridge into Greyfriars Place. Bobby was up on

the wicket, his small, energetic body quivering with excitement from his

muzzle to his tail. If Mr. Traill had been there he would surely have

caught the infection, thrown care to this sweet April breeze for

once, and taken the wee terrier for a run on the Pentland braes. The

temptation was going by when a preoccupied lady, with a sheaf of Easter

lilies on her sable arm, opened the wicket. Her ample Victorian skirts

swept right over the little dog, and when he emerged there was the gate

slightly ajar. Widening the aperture with nose and paws, Bobby was off,

skirmishing at large on the rear and flanks of the troops, down the

Burghmuir.

It may never have happened, in the years since Auld Jock died and the

farmer of Cauldbrae gave up trying to keep him on the hills, that Bobby,

had gone so far back on this once familiar road; and he may not

have recognized it at first, for the highways around Edinburgh were

everywhere much alike. This one alone began to climb again. Up, up it

toiled, for two weary miles, to the hilltop toll-bar of Fairmilehead,

and there the sounds and smells that made it different from other roads

began.

Five miles out of the city the halt was called, and the soldiers flung

themselves on the slope. Many experiences of route-marching had taught

Bobby that there was an interval of rest before the return, so, with

his nose to the ground, he started up the brae on a pilgrimage to old

shrines, just as in his puppyhood days, at Auld Jock's heels, there was

much shouting of men, barking of collies, and bleating of sheep all the

way up. Once he had to leave the road until a driven flock had passed.

Behind the sheep walked an old laborer in hodden-gray, woolen bonnet,

and shepherd's two-fold plaid, with a lamb in the pouch of it. Bobby

trembled at the apparition, sniffed at the hob-nailed boots, and then,

with drooped head and tail, trotted on up the slope.

Men and dogs were all out on the billowy pastures, and the farm-house

of Cauldbrae lay on the level terrace, seemingly deserted and steeped in

memories. A few moments before, a tall lassie had come out to listen

to the military music. A couple of hundred feet below, the coats of the

soldiers looked to her like poppies scattered on the heather. At the

top of the brae the wind was blowing a cold gale, so the maidie went up

again, and around to a bit of tangled garden on the sheltered side of

the house. The “wee lassie Elsie” was still a bairn in short skirts

and braids, who lavished her soft heart, as yet, on briar bushes and

daisies.

Bobby made a tour of the sheepfold, the cowyard and byre, and he

lingered behind the byre, where Auld Jock had played with him on Sabbath

afternoons. He inspected the dairy, and the poultry-house where hens

were sitting on their nests. By and by he trotted around the house and

came upon the lassie, busily clearing winter rubbish from her posie bed.

A dog changes very little in appearance, but in eight and a half years a

child grows into a different person altogether. Bobby barked politely to

let this strange lassie know that he was there. In the next instant he

knew her, for she whirled about and, in a kind of glad wonder, cried

out:

“Oh, Bobby! hae ye come hame? Mither, here's ma ain wee Bobby!” For she

had never given up the hope that this adored little pet would some day

return to her.

“Havers, lassie, ye're aye seein' Bobby i' ilka Hielan' terrier, an'

there's mony o' them aboot.”

The gude-wife looked from an attic window in the steep gable, and then

hurried down. “Weel, noo, ye're richt, Elsie. He wad be comin' wi' the

regiment frae the Castle. Bittie doggies an' laddies are fair daft aboot

the soldiers. Ay, he's bonny, an' weel cared for, by the ordinar'. I

wonder gin he's still leevin' i' the grand auld kirkyaird.”

Wary of her remembered endearments, Bobby kept a safe distance from the

maidie, but he sat up and lolled his tongue, quite willing to pay her a

friendly visit. From that she came to a wrong conclusion: “Sin' he cam'

o' his ain accord he's like to bide.” Her eyes were blue stars.

“I wadna be coontin' on that, lassie. An' I wadna speck a door on 'im

anither time. Grin he wanted to get oot he'd dig aneath a floor o'

stane. Leuk at that, noo! The bonny wee is greetin' for Auld Jock.”

It was true, for, on entering the kitchen, Bobby went straight to the

bench in the corner and lay down flat under it. Elsie sat beside him,

just as she had done of old. Her eyes overflowed so in sympathy that the

mother was quite distracted. This would not do at all.

“Lassie, are ye no' rememberin' Bobby was fair fond o' moor-hens' eggs

fried wi' bits o' cheese? He wullna be gettin' thae things; an' it wad

be maist michty, noo, gin ye couldna win the bittie dog awa' frae the

reekie auld toon. Gang oot wi' 'im an' rin on the brae an' bid 'im find

the nests aneath the whins.”

In a moment they were out on the heather, and it seemed, indeed, as

if Bobby might be won. He frisked and barked at Elsie's heels, chased

rabbits and flushed the grouse; and when he ran into a peat-darkened

tarp, rimmed with moss, he had such a cold and splashy swim as quite to

give a little dog a distaste for warm, soapy water in a claes tub. He

shook and ran himself dry, and he raced the laughing child until they

both dropped panting on the wind-rippled heath. Then he hunted on the

ground under the gorse for those nests that had a dozen or more eggs in

them. He took just one from each in his mouth, as Auld Jock had taught

him to do. On the kitchen hearth he ate the savory meal with much

satisfaction and polite waggings. But when the bugle sounded from below

to form ranks, he pricked his drop ears and started for the door.

Before he knew what had happened he was inside the poultry-house. In

another instant he was digging frantically in the soft earth under the

door. When the lassie lay down across the crack he stopped digging, in

consternation. His sense of smell told him what it was that shut out the

strip of light; and a bairn's soft body is not a proper object of attack

for a little dog, no matter how desperate the emergency. There was no

time to be lost, for the drums began to beat the march. Having to get

out very quickly, Bobby did a forbidden thing: swiftly and noisily he

dashed around the dark place, and there arose such wild squawkings and

rushings of wings as to bring the gude-wife out of the house in alarm.

“Lassie, I canna hae the bittie dog in wi the broodin' chuckies!”

She flung the door wide. Bobby shot through, and into Elsie's

outstretched arms. She held to him desperately, while he twisted and

struggled and strained away; and presently something shining worked into

view, through the disordered thatch about his neck. The mother had come

to the help of the child, and it was she who read the inscription on the

brazen plate aloud.

“Preserve us a'! Lassie, he's been tak'n by the Laird Provost an' gien

the name o' the auld kirkyaird. He's an ower grand doggie. Ma puir

bairnie, dinna greet so sair!” For the little girl suddenly released the

wee Highlander and sobbed on her mother's shoulder.

“He isna ma ain Bobby ony mair!” She “couldna thole” to watch him as he

tumbled down the brae.

On the outward march, among the many dogs and laddies that had

followed the soldiers, Bobby escaped notice. But most of these had gone

adventuring in Swanston Dell, to return to the city by the gorge of

Leith Water. Now, traveling three miles to the soldiers' one, scampering

in wide circles over the fields, swimming burns, scrambling under

hedges, chasing whaups into piping cries, barking and louping in

pure exuberance of spirits, many eyes looked upon him admiringly, and

discontented mouths turned upward at the corners. It is not the least

of a little dog's missions in life to communicate his own irresponsible

gaiety to men.

If the return had been over George IV Bridge Bobby would, no doubt, have

dropped behind at Mr. Traill's or at the kirkyard. But on the Burghmuir

the troops swung eastward until they rounded Arthur's Seat and met

the cavalry drilling before the barracks at Piershill. Such pretty

maneuvering of horse and foot took place below Holyrood Palace as quite

to enrapture a terrier. When the infantry marched up the Canongate and

High Street, the mounted men following and the bands playing at full

blast, the ancient thoroughfare was quickly lined with cheering

crowds, and faces looked down from ten tiers of windows on a beautiful

spectacle. Bobby did not know when the bridge-approach was passed; and

then, on Castle Hill, he was in an unknown region. There the street

widened to the great square of the esplanade. The cavalry wheeled and

dashed down High Street, but the infantry marched on and up, over the

sounding drawbridge that spanned a dry moat of the Middle Ages, and

through a deep-arched gateway of masonry.

The outer gate to the Castle was wider than the opening into many an

Edinburgh wynd; but Bobby stopped, uncertain as to where this narrow

roadway, that curved upward to the right, might lead. It was not a dark

fissure in a cliff of houses, but was bounded on the outer side by a

loopholed wall, and on the inner by a rocky ledge of ascending levels.

Wherever the shelf was of sufficient breadth a battery of cannon was

mounted, and such a flood of light fell from above and flashed

on polished steel and brass as to make the little dog blink in

bewilderment. And he whirled like a rotary sweeper in the dusty road and

yelped when the time-gun, in the half-moon battery at the left of the

gate and behind him, crashed and shook the massive rock.

He barked and barked, and dashed toward the insulting clamor. The

dauntless little dog and his spirited protest were so out of proportion

to the huge offense that the guard laughed, and other soldiers ran out

of the guard houses that flanked the gate. They would have put the noisy

terrier out at once, but Bobby was off, up the curving roadway into the

Castle. The music had ceased, and the soldiers had disappeared over the

rise. Through other dark arches of masonry he ran. On the crest were

two ways to choose--the roadway on around and past the barracks, and a

flight of steps cut steeply in the living rock of the ledge, and leading

up to the King's Bastion. Bobby took the stairs at a few bounds.

On the summit there was nothing at all beside a tiny, ancient stone

chapel with a Norman arched and sculptured doorway, and guarding it

an enormous burst cannon. But these ruins were the crown jewels of the

fortifications--their origins lost in legends--and so they were cared

for with peculiar reverence. Sergeant Scott of the Royal Engineers

himself, in fatigue-dress, was down on his knees before St. Margaret's

oratory, pulling from a crevice in the foundations a knot of grass that

was at its insidious work of time and change. As Bobby dashed up to the

citadel, still barking, the man jumped to his feet. Then he slapped his

thigh and laughed. Catching the animated little bundle of protest the

sergeant set him up for inspection on the shattered breeching of Mons

Meg.

“Losh! The sma' dog cam' by 'is ainsel'! He could no' resist the braw

soldier laddies. 'He's a dog o' discreemination,' eh? Gin he bides a

wee, noo, it wull tak' the conceit oot o' the innkeeper.” He turned to

gather up his tools, for the first dinner bugle was blowing. Bobby knew

by the gun that it was the dinner-hour, but he had been fed at the farm

and was not hungry. He might as well see a bit more of life. He sat

upon the cannon, not in the least impressed by the honor, and lolled his

tongue.

In Edinburgh Castle there was nothing to alarm a little dog. A dozen

or more large buildings, in three or four groups, and representing

many periods of architecture, lay to the south and west on the lowest

terraces, and about them were generous parked spaces. Into the largest

of the buildings, a long, four-storied barracks, the soldiers had

vanished. And now, at the blowing of a second bugle, half a hundred

orderlies hurried down from a modern cook-house, near the summit, with

cans of soup and meat and potatoes. The sergeant followed one of these

into a room on the front of the barracks. In their serge fatigue-tunics

the sixteen men about the long table looked as different from the gay

soldiers of the march as though so many scarlet and gold and bonneted

butterflies had turned back into sad-colored grubs.

“Private McLean,” he called to his batman who, for one-and-six a week,

cared for his belongings, “tak' chairge o' the dog, wull ye, an' fetch

'im to the non-com mess when ye come to put ma kit i' gude order.”

Before he could answer the bombardment of questions about Bobby the door

was opened again. The men dropped their knives and forks and stood at

attention. The officer of the day was making the rounds of the forty

or fifty such rooms in the barracks to inquire of the soldiers if their

dinner was satisfactory. He recognized at once the attractive little

Skye that had taken the eyes of the men on the march, and asked about

him. Sergeant Scott explained that Bobby had no owner. He was living, by

permission, in Greyfriars kirkyard, guarding the grave of a long-dead,

humble master, and was fed by the landlord of the dining-rooms near the

gate. If the little dog took a fancy to garrison life, and the regiment

to him, he thought Mr. Traill, who had the best claim upon him, might

consent to his transfer to the Castle. After orders, at sunset, he would

take Bobby down to the restaurant himself.

“I wish you good luck, Sergeant.” The officer whistled, and Bobby leaped

upon him and off again, and indulged in many inconsequent friskings.

“Before you take him home fetch him over to the officers' mess at

dinner. It is guest night, and he is sure to interest the gentlemen. A

loyal little creature who has guarded his dead master's grave for more

than eight years deserves to have a toast drunk to him by the officers

of the Queen. But it's an extraordinary story, and it doesn't sound

altogether probable. Jolly little beggar!” He patted Bobby cordially on

the side, and went out.

The news of his advent and fragments of his story spread so quickly

through the barracks that mess after mess swarmed down from the upper

moors and out into the roadway to see Bobby. Private McLean stood in the

door, smoking a cutty pipe, and grinning with pride in the merry little

ruffian of a terrier, who met the friendly advances of the soldiers more

than half-way. Bobby's guardian would have liked very well to have

sat before the canteen in the sun and gossiped about his small charge.

However, in the sergeant's sleeping-quarters above the mess-room, he had

the little dog all to himself, and Bobby had the liveliest interest

in the boxes and pots, brushes and sponges, and in the processes of

polishing, burnishing, and pipe-claying a soldier's boots and buttons

and belts. As he worked at his valeting, the man kept time with his foot

to rude ballads that he sang in such a hissing Celtic that Bobby

barked, scandalized by a dialect that had been music in the ears of his

ancestors. At that Private McLean danced a Highland fling for him, and

wee Bobby came near bursting with excitement. When the sergeant came up

to make a magnificent toilet for tea and for the evening in town, the

soldier expressed himself with enthusiasm.

“He iss a deffle of a dog, sir!”

He was thought to be a “deffle of a dog” in the mess, where the non-com

officers had tea at small writing and card tables. They talked and

laughed very fast and loud, tried Bobby out on all the pretty tricks he

knew, and taught him to speak and to jump for a lump of sugar balanced

on his nose. They did not fondle him, and this rough, masculine style of

pampering and petting was very much to his liking. It was a proud thing,

too, for a little dog, to walk out with the sergeant's shining boots

and twirled walkingstick, and be introduced into one strange place after

another all around the Castle.

From tea to tattoo was playtime for the garrison. Many smartly dressed

soldiers, with passes earned by good behavior, went out to find

amusement in the city. Visitors, some of them tourists from America,

made the rounds under the guidance of old soldiers. The sergeant

followed such a group of sight-seers through a postern behind the armory

and out onto the cliff. There he lounged under a fir-tree above St.

Margaret's Well and smoked a dandified cigar, while Bobby explored the

promenade and scraped acquaintance with the strangers.

On the northern and southern sides the Castle wall rose from the very

edge of sheer precipices. Except for loopholes there were no openings.

But on the west there was a grassy terrace without the wall, and below

that the cliff fell away a little less steeply. The declivity was

clothed sparsely with hazel shrubs, thorns, whins and thistles; and now

and then a stunted fir or rowan tree or a group of white-stemmed birks

was stoutly rooted on a shelving ledge. Had any one, the visitors asked,

ever escaped down this wild crag?

Yes, Queen Margaret's children, the guide answered. Their father dead,

in battle, their saintly mother dead in the sanctuary of her tiny

chapel, the enemy battering at the gate, soldiers had lowered the royal

lady's body in a basket, and got the orphaned children down, in safety

and away, in a fog, over Queen's Ferry to Dunfirmline in the Kingdom

of Fife. It was true that a false step or a slip of the foot would

have dashed them to pieces on the rocks below. A gentleman of the party

scouted the legend. Only a fox or an Alpine chamois could make that

perilous descent.

With his head cocked alertly, Bobby had stood listening. Hearing this

vague talk of going down, he may have thought these people meant to go,

for he quietly dropped over the edge and went, head over heels, ten feet

down, and landed in a clump of hazel. A lady screamed. Bobby righted

himself and barked cheerful reassurance. The sergeant sprang to his feet

and ordered him to come back.

Now, the sergeant was pleasant company, to be sure; but he was not a

person who had to be obeyed, so Bobby barked again, wagged his crested

tail, and dropped lower. The people who shuddered on the brink could see

that the little dog was going cautiously enough; and presently he looked

doubtfully over a sheer fall of twenty feet, turned and scrambled back

to the promenade. He was cried and exclaimed over by the hysterical

ladies, and scolded for a bittie fule by the sergeant. To this Bobby

returned ostentatious yawns of boredom and nonchalant lollings, for

it seemed a small matter to be so fashed about. At that a gentleman

remarked, testily, to hide his own agitation, that dogs really had very

little sense. The sergeant ordered Bobby to precede him through the

postern, and the little dog complied amiably.

All the afternoon bugles had been blowing. For each signal there was a

different note, and at each uniformed men appeared and hurried to new

points. Now, near sunset, there was the fanfare for officers' orders for

the next day. The sergeant put Bobby into Queen Margaret's Chapel, bade

him remain there, and went down to the Palace Yard. The chapel on the

summit was a convenient place for picking the little dog up on his way

to the officers' mess. Then he meant to have his own supper cozily at

Mr. Traill's and to negotiate for Bobby.

A dozen people would have crowded this ancient oratory, but, small as

it was, it was fitted with a chancel rail and a font for baptizing the

babies born in the Castle. Through the window above the altar, where the

sainted Queen was pictured in stained glass, the sunlight streamed and

laid another jeweled image on the stone floor. Then the colors faded,

until the holy place became an austere cell. The sun had dropped behind

the western Highlands.

Bobby thought it quite time to go home. By day he often went far

afield, seeking distraction, but at sunset he yearned for the grave in

Greyfriars. The steps up which he had come lay in plain view from the

doorway of the chapel. Bobby dropped down the stairs, and turned into

the main roadway of the Castle. At the first arch that spanned it a

red-coated guard paced on the other side of a closed gate. It would

not be locked until tattoo, at nine thirty, but, without a pass, no one

could go in or out. Bobby sprang on the bars and barked, as much as to

say: “Come awa', man, I hae to get oot.”

The guard stopped, presented arms to this small, peremptory terrier,

and inquired facetiously if he had a pass. Bobby bristled and yelped

indignantly. The soldier grinned with amusement. Sentinel duty was

lonesome business, and any diversion a relief. In a guardhouse asleep

when Bobby came into the Castle, he had not seen the little dog before

and knew nothing about him. He might be the property of one of the

regiment ladies. Without orders he dared not let Bobby out. A furious

and futile onslaught on the gate he met with a jocose feint of his

bayonet. Tiring of the play, presently, the soldier turned his back and

paced to the end of his beat.

Bobby stopped barking in sheer astonishment. He gazed after the stiff,

retreating back, in frightened disbelief that he was not to be let out.

He attacked the stone under the barrier, but quickly discovered its

unyielding nature. Then he howled until the sentinel came back, but when

the man went by without looking at him he uttered a whimpering cry and

fled upward. The roadway was dark and the dusk was gathering on the

citadel when Bobby dashed across the summit and down into the brightly

lighted square of the Palace Yard.

The gas-lamps were being lighted on the bridge, and Mr. Traill was

getting into his streetcoat for his call on Mr. Brown when Tammy put his

head in at the door of the restaurant. The crippled laddie had a warm,

uplifted look, for Love had touched the sordid things of life, and a

miracle had bloomed for the tenement dwellers around Greyfriars.

“Maister Traill, Mrs. Brown says wull ye please send Bobby hame. Her

gude-mon's frettin' for 'im; an' syne, a' the folk aroond the kirkyaird

hae come to the gate to see the bittie dog's braw collar. They wullna

believe the Laird Provost gied it to 'im for a chairm gin they dinna see

it wi' their gin een.”

“Why, mannie, Bobby's no' here. He must be in the kirkyard.”

“Nae, he isna. I ca'ed, an' Ailie keeked in ilka place amang the

stanes.”

They stared at each other, the landlord serious, the laddie's lip

trembling. Mr. Traill had not returned from his numerous errands about

the city until the middle of the afternoon. He thought, of course, that

Bobby had been in for his dinner, as usual, and had returned to the

kirkyard. It appeared, now, that no one about the diningrooms had seen

the little dog. Everybody had thought that Mr. Traill had taken Bobby

with him. He hurried down to the gate to find Mistress Jeanie at the

wicket, and a crowd of tenement women and children in the alcove and

massed down Candlemakers Row. Alarm spread like a contagion. In eight

years and more Bobby had not been outside the kirkyard gate after the

sunset bugle. Mrs. Brown turned pale.

“Dinna say the bittie dog's lost, Maister Traill. It wad gang to the

heart o' ma gudemon.”

“Havers, woman, he's no' lost.” Mr. Traill spoke stoutly enough. “Just

go up to the lodge and tell Mr. Brown I'm--weel, I'll just attend to

that sma' matter my ainsel'.” With that he took a gay face and a set-up

air into the lodge to meet Mr. Brown's glowering eye.

“Whaur's the dog, man? I've been deaved aboot 'im a' the day, but I

haena seen the sonsie rascal nor the braw collar the Laird Provost gied

'im. An' syne, wi' the folk comin' to spier for 'im an' swarmin' ower

the kirkyaird, ye'd think a warlock was aboot. Bobby isna your dog--”

“Haud yoursel', man. Bobby's a famous dog, with the freedom of Edinburgh

given to him, and naething will do but Glenormiston must show him to a

company o' grand folk at his bit country place. He's sending in a cart

by a groom, and I'm to tak' Bobby out and fetch him hame after a braw

dinner on gowd plate. The bairns meant weel, but they could no' give

Bobby a washing fit for a veesit with the nobeelity. I had to tak' him

to a barber for a shampoo.”

Mr. Brown roared with laughter. “Man, ye hae mair fule notions i' yer

heid. Ye'll hae to pay a shullin' or twa to a barber, an' Bobby'll be

sae set up there'll be nae leevin' wi' 'im. Sit ye doon an' tell me

aboot the collar, man.”

“I can no' stop now to wag my tongue. Here's the gude-wife. I'll just

help her get you awa' to your bed.”

It was dark when he returned to the gate, and the Castle wore its

luminous crown. The lights from the street lamps flickered on the

up-turned, anxious faces. Some of the children had begun to weep. Women

offered loud suggestions. There were surmises that Bobby had been run

over by a cart in the street, and angry conjectures that he had been

stolen. Then Ailie wailed:

“Oh, Maister Traill, the bittie dog's deid!”

“Havers, lassie! I'm ashamed o' ye for a fulish bairn. Bobby's no' deid.

Nae doot he's amang the stanes i' the kirkyaird. He's aye scramblin'

aboot for vermin an' pussies, an' may hae hurt himsel', an' ye a' ken

the bonny wee wadna cry oot i' the kirkyaird. Noo, get to wark, an'

dinna stand there greetin' an' waggin' yer tongues. The mithers an'

bairns maun juist gang hame an' stap their havers, an' licht a' the

candles an' cruisey lamps i' their hames, an' set them i' the windows

aboon the kirkyaird. Greyfriars is murky by the ordinar', an' ye couldna

find a coo there wi'oot the lichts.”

The crowd suddenly melted away, so eager were they all to have a hand in

helping to find the community pet. Then Mr. Traill turned to the boys.

“Hoo mony o' ye laddies hae the bull's-eye lanterns?”

Ah! not many in the old buildings around the kirkyard. These japanned

tin aids to dark adventures on the golf links on autumn nights cost a

sixpence and consumed candles. Geordie Ross and Sandy McGregor, coming

up arm in arm, knew of other students and clerks who still had these

cherished toys of boyhood. With these heroes in the lead a score or more

of laddies swarmed into the kirkyard.

The tenements were lighted up as they had not been since nobles held

routs and balls there. Enough candles and oil were going up in smoke

to pay for wee Bobby's license all over again, and enough love shone

in pallid little faces that peered into the dusk to light the darkest

corner in the heart of the world. Rays from the bull's-eyes were thrown

into every nook and cranny. Very small laddies insinuated themselves

into the narrowest places. They climbed upon high vaults and let

themselves down in last year's burdocks and tangled vines. It was all

done in silence, only Mr. Traill speaking at all. He went everywhere

with the searchers, and called:

“Whaur are ye, Bobby? Come awa' oot, laddie!”

But no gleaming ghost of a tousled dog was conjured by the voice of

affection. The tiniest scratching or lowest moaning could have been

heard, for the warm spring evening was very still, and there were, as

yet, few leaves to rustle. Sleepy birds complained at being disturbed

on their perches, and rodents could be heard scampering along their

runways. The entire kirkyard was explored, then the interior of the

two kirks. Mr. Traill went up to the lodge for the keys, saying,

optimistically, that a sexton might unwittingly have locked Bobby in.

Young men with lanterns went through the courts of the tenements, around

the Grassmarket, and under the arches of the bridge. Laddies dropped

from the wall and hunted over Heriot's Hospital grounds to Lauriston

market. Tammy, poignantly conscious of being of no practical use, sat

on Auld Jock's grave, firm in the conviction that Bobby would return to

that spot his ainsel' And Ailie, being only a maid, whose portion it

was to wait and weep, lay across the window-sill, on the pediment of the

tomb, a limp little figure of woe.

Mr. Traill's heart was full of misgiving. Nothing but death or stone

walls could keep that little creature from this beloved grave. But, in

thinking of stone walls, he never once thought of the Castle. Away over

to the east, in Broughton market, when the garrison marched away and at

Lauriston when they returned, Mr. Traill did not know that the soldiers

had been out of the city. Busy in the lodge Mistress Jeanie had not seen

them go by the kirkyard, and no one else, except Mr. Brown, knew the

fascination that military uniforms, marching and music had for wee

Bobby. A fog began to drift in from the sea. Suddenly the grass was

sheeted and the tombs blurred. A curtain of gauze seemed to be hung

before the lighted tenements. The Castle head vanished, and the sounds

of the drum and bugle of the tattoo came down muffled, as if through

layers of wool. The lights of the bull's-eyes were ruddy discs that cast

no rays. Then these were smeared out to phosphorescent glows, like the

“spunkies” that everybody in Scotland knew came out to dance in old

kirkyards.

It was no' canny. In the smother of the fog some of the little boys were

lost, and cried out. Mr. Traill got them up to the gate and sent them

home in bands, under the escort of the students. Mistress Jeanie was out

by the wicket. Mr. Brown was asleep, and she “couldna thole it to

sit there snug.” When a fog-horn moaned from the Firth she broke into

sobbing. Mr. Traill comforted her as best he could by telling her a

dozen plans for the morning. By feeling along the wall he got her to the

lodge, and himself up to his cozy dining-rooms.

For the first time since Queen Mary the gate of the historic garden of

the Greyfriars was left on the latch. And it was so that a little dog,

coming home in the night might not be shut out.