then a movement of despair. It grew to be high day at last, perhaps nine in the forenoon; and I was worn with these wanderings, and chanced to have stopped in front of a very good house on the landward side, a house with beautiful, clear glass windows, flowering knots upon the sills, the walls new-harled,[1] and a chase-dog sitting yawning on the step like one that was at home. Well, I was even envying this dumb brute, when the door fell open and there issued forth a shrewd, ruddy, kindly, consequential man in a well powdered wig and spectacles. I was in such a plight that no one set eyes on me once, but he looked at me again; and this gentleman, as it proved, was so much struck with my poor appearance that he came straight up to me and asked me what I did.
I told him I was come to the Queensferry on business, and taking heart of grace, asked him to direct me to the house of Mr. Rankeillor.
“Why,” said he, “that is his house that I have just come out of; and for a rather singular chance, I am that very man.”
“Then, sir,” said I, “I have to beg the favour of an interview.”
“I do not know your name,” said he, “nor yet your face.”
“My name is David Balfour,” said I.
“David Balfour?” he repeated, in rather a high tone, like one surprised. “And where have you come
- ↑ Newly rough-cast.
