John Burnet of Barns by John Buchan — Read

The night was full of wind, light spring airs, which rustled and whistled down every street and brought a promise of the hills and the green country. The stars winked and sparkled above me, but I had no mind to them or aught else save a grey house in a wood, and a girl sitting there with a heavy heart. 'Faith, my own was heavy enough as I led Maisie through the West Vennel, shunning all but the darkest streets, for I knew not when I might be challenged and recognised, losing my way often, but nearing always to the outskirts of the town. Children brawled on the pavement, lights twinkled from window and doorway, the smell of supper came out of chink and cranny. But such things were not for me, and soon I was past all, and near the hamlet of Liberton and the highway to Tweeddale.

Now there was safety for me to mount, and it was blessed to feel the life between my knees and the touch of my mare's neck. By good luck I had found her saddled and bridled, as if some careless, rascally groom had left her untouched since her arrival. But I would have cared little had there been no equipment save a bridle-rope. I could guide a horse on the darkest night by the sway of my body, and it was not for nothing that I had scrambled bareback about the hills of Barns. Maisie took the road with long, supple strides, as light and graceful as a bird. The big mass of Pentland loomed black before me; then in a little it fell over to the right as we advanced on our way. The little wayside cottages went past like so many beehives; through hamlet and village we clattered, waking the echoes of the place, but tarrying not a moment, for the mare was mettlesome, and the rider had the best cause in the world for his speed. Now this errand which seems so light, was, in truth, the hardest and most perilous that could be found. For you are to remember that I was a man proscribed and all but outlawed, that any chance wayfarer might arrest me; and since in those troubled times any rider was suspected, what was a man to say if he saw one dressed in gentleman's apparel, riding a blood horse, coatless and hatless? Then, more, all the way to Peebles lay through dangerous land, for it was the road to the southwest and the Whigs of Galloway, and, since the Pentland Rising, that part had been none of the quietest. Also it was my own country, where I was a well-kenned man, known to near everyone, so what might have been my safety in other times, was my danger in these. This, too, was the road which my cousin Gilbert had travelled from Barns, and well watched it was like to be if Gilbert had aught to do with the matter.