In the midst of his reveries he looked up to see an old man sitting on
the porch of a low ancient cottage, separated from the rest of the
village, holding aloof as it were on this, the nearer and less
accessible side of the harbor. A steep stretch of sand led down from
it to the very edge of the horseshoe bay, broken here and there by
large projections of stone.
The old man looked back at him placidly, smoking a short pipe and
humming quietly but distinctly to himself. The prisoner felt fear, and
a deep hesitation, until almost in spite of himself he began to follow
the rise and fall of the simple tune. Then with a rush of warmth and
melancholy he recognized it: "The Walls of Inverness." It was a song
that had been sung at the camp fires of Highland soldiers for time out
of mind. The old man was a veteran, in this blessed, unmistakable way
telling him that he knew of his plight, and would help.
With relief but at the same time caution, the younger man approached
the cottage, and mounted the steps to the weather-beaten porch. The
two men regarded each other a moment in silence.
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