prompt:
Chapter: The month, as I have said, was not yet out, but it was already far
through August, and beautiful warm weather, with every sign of an early
and great harvest, when I was pronounced able for my journey. Our money
was now run to so low an ebb that we must think first of all on speed;
for if we came not soon to Mr. Rankeillor's, or if when we came there he
should fail to help me, we must surely starve. In Alan's view, besides,
the hunt must have now greatly slackened; and the line of the Forth and
even Stirling Bridge, which is the main pass over that river, would be
watched with little interest.

"It's a chief principle in military affairs," said he, "to go where
ye are least expected. Forth is our trouble; ye ken the saying, 'Forth
bridles the wild Hielandman.' Well, if we seek to creep round about
the head of that river and come down by Kippen or Balfron, it's just
precisely there that they'll be looking to lay hands on us. But if we
stave on straight to the auld Brig of Stirling, I'll lay my sword they
let us pass unchallenged."

The first night, accordingly, we pushed to the house of a Maclaren in
Strathire, a friend of Duncan's, where we slept the twenty-first of the
month, and whence we set forth again about the fall of night to make
another easy stage. The twenty-second we lay in a heather bush on the
hillside in Uam Var, within view of a herd of deer, the happiest ten
hours of sleep in a fine, breathing sunshine and on bone-dry ground,
that I have ever tasted. That night we struck Allan Water, and followed
it down; and coming to the edge of the hills saw the whole Carse of
Stirling underfoot, as flat as a pancake, with the town and castle on a
hill in the midst of it, and the moon shining on the Links of Forth.

"Now," said Alan, "I kenna if ye care, but ye're in your own land again.
We passed the Hieland Line in the first hour; and now if we could but
pass yon crooked water, we might cast our bonnets in the air."

In Allan Water, near by where it falls into the Forth, we found a little
sandy islet, overgrown with burdock, butterbur and the like low plants,
that would just cover us if we lay flat. Here it was we made our camp,
within plain view of Stirling Castle, whence we could hear the drums
beat as some part of the garrison paraded. Shearers worked all day in
a field on one side of the river, and we could hear the stones going
on the hooks and the voices and even the words of the men talking. It
behoved to lie close and keep silent. But the sand of the little isle
was sun-warm, the green plants gave us shelter for our heads, we had
food and drink in plenty; and to crown all, we were within sight of
safety.

As soon as the shearers quit their work and the dusk began to fall,
we waded ashore and struck for the Bridge of Stirling, keeping to the
fields and under the field fences.

The bridge is close under the castle hill, an old, high, narrow bridge
with pinnacles along the parapet; and you may conceive with how much
interest I looked upon it, not only as a place famous in history, but as
the very doors of salvation to Alan and myself. The moon was not yet up
when we came there; a few lights shone along the front of the fortress,
and lower down a few lighted windows in the town; but it was all mighty
still, and there seemed to be no guard upon the passage.

I was for pushing straight across; but Alan was more wary.

"It looks unco' quiet," said he; "but for all that we'll lie down here
cannily behind a dyke, and make sure."

So we lay for about a quarter of an hour, whiles whispering, whiles
lying still and hearing nothing earthly but the washing of the water on
the piers. At last there came by an old, hobbling woman with a crutch
stick; who first stopped a little, close to where we lay, and bemoaned
herself and the long way she had travelled; and then set forth again up
the steep spring of the bridge. The woman was so little, and the night
still so dark, that we soon lost sight of her; only heard the sound of
her steps, and her stick, and a cough that she had by fits, draw slowly
farther away.

"She's bound to be across now," I whispered.

"Na," said Alan, "her foot still sounds boss* upon the bridge."

     * Hollow.

And just then--"Who goes?" cried a voice, and we heard the butt of
a musket rattle on the stones. I must suppose the sentry had been
sleeping, so that had we tried, we might have passed unseen; but he was
awake now, and the chance forfeited.

"This'll never do," said Alan. "This'll never, never do for us, David."

And without another word, he began to crawl away through the fields; and
a little after, being well out of eye-shot, got to his feet again, and
struck along a road that led to the eastward. I could not conceive what
he was doing; and indeed I was so sharply cut by the disappointment,
that I was little likely to be pleased with anything. A moment back
and I had seen myself knocking at Mr. Rankeillor's door to claim my
inheritance, like a hero in a ballad; and here was I back again, a
wandering, hunted blackguard, on the wrong side of Forth.

"Well?" said I.

"Well," said Alan, "what would ye have? They're none such fools as I
took them for. We have still the Forth to pass, Davie--weary fall the
rains that fed and the hillsides that guided it!"

"And why go east?" said I.

"Ou, just upon the chance!" said he. "If we cannae pass the river, we'll
have to see what we can do for the firth."

"There are fords upon the river, and none upon the firth," said I.

"To be sure there are fords, and a bridge forbye," quoth Alan; "and of
what service, when they are watched?"

"Well," said I, "but a river can be swum."

"By them that have the skill of it," returned he; "but I have yet to
hear that either you or me is much of a hand at that exercise; and for
my own part, I swim like a stone."

"I'm not up to you in talking back, Alan," I said; "but I can see we're
making bad worse. If it's hard to pass a river, it stands to reason it
must be worse to pass a sea."

"But there's such a thing as a boat," says Alan, "or I'm the more
deceived."

"Ay, and such a thing as money," says I. "But for us that have neither
one nor other, they might just as well not have been invented."

"Ye think so?" said Alan.

"I do that," said I.

"David," says he, "ye're a man of small invention and less faith. But
let me set my wits upon the hone, and if I cannae beg, borrow, nor yet
steal a boat, I'll make one!"

"I think I see ye!" said I. "And what's more than all that: if ye pass a
bridge, it can tell no tales; but if we pass the firth, there's the boat
on the wrong side--somebody must have brought it--the country-side will
all be in a bizz---"

"Man!" cried Alan, "if I make a boat, I'll make a body to take it back
again! So deave me with no more of your nonsense, but walk (for that's
what you've got to do)--and let Alan think for ye."

All night, then, we walked through the north side of the Carse under
the high line of the Ochil mountains; and by Alloa and Clackmannan and
Culross, all of which we avoided: and about ten in the morning, mighty
hungry and tired, came to the little clachan of Limekilns. This is a
place that sits near in by the water-side, and looks across the Hope to
the town of the Queensferry. Smoke went up from both of these, and from
other villages and farms upon all hands. The fields were being reaped;
two ships lay anchored, and boats were coming and going on the Hope.
It was altogether a right pleasant sight to me; and I could not take
my fill of gazing at these comfortable, green, cultivated hills and the
busy people both of the field and sea.

For all that, there was Mr. Rankeillor's house on the south shore, where
I had no doubt wealth awaited me; and here was I upon the north, clad in
poor enough attire of an outlandish fashion, with three silver shillings
left to me of all my fortune, a price set upon my head, and an outlawed
man for my sole company.

"O, Alan!" said I, "to think of it! Over there, there's all that heart
could want waiting me; and the birds go over, and the boats go over--all
that please can go, but just me only! O, man, but it's a heart-break!"

In Limekilns we entered a small change-house, which we only knew to be a
public by the wand over the door, and bought some bread and cheese from
a good-looking lass that was the servant. This we carried with us in a
bundle, meaning to sit and eat it in a bush of wood on the sea-shore,
that we saw some third part of a mile in front. As we went, I kept
looking across the water and sighing to myself; and though I took no
heed of it, Alan had fallen into a muse. At last he stopped in the way.

"Did ye take heed of the lass we bought this of?" says he, tapping on
the bread and cheese.

"To be sure," said I, "and a bonny lass she was."

"Ye thought that?" cries he. "Man, David, that's good news."

"In the name of all that's wonderful, why so?" says I. "What good can
that do?"

"Well," said Alan, with one of his droll looks, "I was rather in hopes
it would maybe get us that boat."

"If it were the other way about, it would be liker it," said I.

"That's all that you ken, ye see," said Alan. "I don't want the lass to
fall in love with ye, I want her to be sorry for ye, David; to which end
there is no manner of need that she should take you for a beauty. Let me
see" (looking me curiously over). "I wish ye were a wee thing paler; but
apart from that ye'll do fine for my purpose--ye have a fine, hang-dog,
rag-and-tatter, clappermaclaw kind of a look to ye, as if ye had
stolen the coat from a potato-bogle. Come; right about, and back to the
change-house for that boat of ours."

I followed him, laughing.

"David Balfour," said he, "ye're a very funny gentleman by your way of
it, and this is a very funny employ for ye, no doubt. For all that, if
ye have any affection for my neck (to say nothing of your own) ye will
perhaps be kind enough to take this matter responsibly. I am going to
do a bit of play-acting, the bottom ground of which is just exactly as
serious as the gallows for the pair of us. So bear it, if ye please, in
mind, and conduct yourself according."

"Well, well," said I, "have it as you will."

As we got near the clachan, he made me take his arm and hang upon it
like one almost helpless with weariness; and by the time he pushed
open the change-house door, he seemed to be half carrying me. The maid
appeared surprised (as well she might be) at our speedy return; but
Alan had no words to spare for her in explanation, helped me to a chair,
called for a tass of brandy with which he fed me in little sips,
and then breaking up the bread and cheese helped me to eat it like
a nursery-lass; the whole with that grave, concerned, affectionate
countenance, that might have imposed upon a judge. It was small wonder
if the maid were taken with the picture we presented, of a poor, sick,
overwrought lad and his most tender comrade. She drew quite near, and
stood leaning with her back on the next table.

"What's like wrong with him?" said she at last.

Alan turned upon her, to my great wonder, with a kind of fury. "Wrong?"
cries he. "He's walked more hundreds of miles than he has hairs upon his
chin, and slept oftener in wet heather than dry sheets. Wrong, quo' she!
Wrong enough, I would think! Wrong, indeed!" and he kept grumbling to
himself as he fed me, like a man ill-pleased.

"He's young for the like of that," said the maid.

"Ower young," said Alan, with his back to her.

"He would be better riding," says she.

"And where could I get a horse to him?" cried Alan, turning on her with
the same appearance of fury. "Would ye have me steal?"

I thought this roughness would have sent her off in dudgeon, as indeed
it closed her mouth for the time. But my companion knew very well what
he was doing; and for as simple as he was in some things of life, had a
great fund of roguishness in such affairs as these.

"Ye neednae tell me," she said at last--"ye're gentry."

"Well," said Alan, softened a little (I believe against his will) by
this artless comment, "and suppose we were? Did ever you hear that
gentrice put money in folk's pockets?"

She sighed at this, as if she were herself some disinherited great lady.
"No," says she, "that's true indeed."

I was all this while chafing at the part I played, and sitting
tongue-tied between shame and merriment; but somehow at this I could
hold in no longer, and bade Alan let me be, for I was better already. My
voice stuck in my throat, for I ever hated to take part in lies; but my
very embarrassment helped on the plot, for the lass no doubt set down my
husky voice to sickness and fatigue.

"Has he nae friends?" said she, in a tearful voice.

"That has he so!" cried Alan, "if we could but win to them!--friends and
rich friends, beds to lie in, food to eat, doctors to see to him--and
here he must tramp in the dubs and sleep in the heather like a
beggarman."

"And why that?" says the lass.

"My dear," said Alan, "I cannae very safely say; but I'll tell ye what
I'll do instead," says he, "I'll whistle ye a bit tune." And with that
he leaned pretty far over the table, and in a mere breath of a whistle,
but with a wonderful pretty sentiment, gave her a few bars of "Charlie
is my darling."

"Wheesht," says she, and looked over her shoulder to the door.

"That's it," said Alan.

"And him so young!" cries the lass.

"He's old enough to----" and Alan struck his forefinger on the back part
of his neck, meaning that I was old enough to lose my head.

"It would be a black shame," she cried, flushing high.

"It's what will be, though," said Alan, "unless we manage the better."

At this the lass turned and ran out of that part of the house, leaving
us alone together. Alan in high good humour at the furthering of his
schemes, and I in bitter dudgeon at being called a Jacobite and treated
like a child.

"Alan," I cried, "I can stand no more of this."

"Ye'll have to sit it then, Davie," said he. "For if ye upset the pot
now, ye may scrape your own life out of the fire, but Alan Breck is a
dead man."

This was so true that I could only groan; and even my groan served
Alan's purpose, for it was overheard by the lass as she came flying in
again with a dish of white puddings and a bottle of strong ale.

"Poor lamb!" says she, and had no sooner set the meat before us, than
she touched me on the shoulder with a little friendly touch, as much as
to bid me cheer up. Then she told us to fall to, and there would be no
more to pay; for the inn was her own, or at least her father's, and he
was gone for the day to Pittencrieff. We waited for no second bidding,
for bread and cheese is but cold comfort and the puddings smelt
excellently well; and while we sat and ate, she took up that same place
by the next table, looking on, and thinking, and frowning to herself,
and drawing the string of her apron through her hand.

"I'm thinking ye have rather a long tongue," she said at last to Alan.

"Ay" said Alan; "but ye see I ken the folk I speak to."

"I would never betray ye," said she, "if ye mean that."

"No," said he, "ye're not that kind. But I'll tell ye what ye would do,
ye would help."

"I couldnae," said she, shaking her head. "Na, I couldnae."

"No," said he, "but if ye could?"

She answered him nothing.

"Look here, my lass," said Alan, "there are boats in the Kingdom of
Fife, for I saw two (no less) upon the beach, as I came in by your
town's end. Now if we could have the use of a boat to pass under cloud
of night into Lothian, and some secret, decent kind of a man to bring
that boat back again and keep his counsel, there would be two souls
saved--mine to all likelihood--his to a dead surety. If we lack that
boat, we have but three shillings left in this wide world; and where
to go, and how to do, and what other place there is for us except the
chains of a gibbet--I give you my naked word, I kenna! Shall we go
wanting, lassie? Are ye to lie in your warm bed and think upon us, when
the wind gowls in the chimney and the rain tirls on the roof? Are ye to
eat your meat by the cheeks of a red fire, and think upon this poor sick
lad of mine, biting his finger ends on a blae muir for cauld and hunger?
Sick or sound, he must aye be moving; with the death grapple at his
throat he must aye be trailing in the rain on the lang roads; and when
he gants his last on a rickle of cauld stanes, there will be nae friends
near him but only me and God."

At this appeal, I could see the lass was in great trouble of mind,
being tempted to help us, and yet in some fear she might be helping
malefactors; and so now I determined to step in myself and to allay her
scruples with a portion of the truth.

"Did ever you hear," said I, "of Mr. Rankeillor of the Ferry?"

"Rankeillor the writer?" said she. "I daur say that!"

"Well," said I, "it's to his door that I am bound, so you may judge by
that if I am an ill-doer; and I will tell you more, that though I am
indeed, by a dreadful error, in some peril of my life, King George has
no truer friend in all Scotland than myself."

Her face cleared up mightily at this, although Alan's darkened.

"That's more than I would ask," said she. "Mr. Rankeillor is a kennt
man." And she bade us finish our meat, get clear of the clachan as soon
as might be, and lie close in the bit wood on the sea-beach. "And ye can
trust me," says she, "I'll find some means to put you over."

At this we waited for no more, but shook hands with her upon the
bargain, made short work of the puddings, and set forth again from
Limekilns as far as to the wood. It was a small piece of perhaps a score
of elders and hawthorns and a few young ashes, not thick enough to veil
us from passersby upon the road or beach. Here we must lie, however,
making the best of the brave warm weather and the good hopes we now had
of a deliverance, and planing more particularly what remained for us to
do.

We had but one trouble all day; when a strolling piper came and sat in
the same wood with us; a red-nosed, bleareyed, drunken dog, with a great
bottle of whisky in his pocket, and a long story of wrongs that had been
done him by all sorts of persons, from the Lord President of the
Court of Session, who had denied him justice, down to the Bailies of
Inverkeithing who had given him more of it than he desired. It was
impossible but he should conceive some suspicion of two men lying all
day concealed in a thicket and having no business to allege. As long as
he stayed there he kept us in hot water with prying questions; and after
he was gone, as he was a man not very likely to hold his tongue, we were
in the greater impatience to be gone ourselves.

The day came to an end with the same brightness; the night fell quiet
and clear; lights came out in houses and hamlets and then, one after
another, began to be put out; but it was past eleven, and we were long
since strangely tortured with anxieties, before we heard the grinding
of oars upon the rowing-pins. At that, we looked out and saw the lass
herself coming rowing to us in a boat. She had trusted no one with our
affairs, not even her sweetheart, if she had one; but as soon as her
father was asleep, had left the house by a window, stolen a neighbour's
boat, and come to our assistance single-handed.

I was abashed how to find expression for my thanks; but she was no less
abashed at the thought of hearing them; begged us to lose no time and to
hold our peace, saying (very properly) that the heart of our matter was
in haste and silence; and so, what with one thing and another, she had
set us on the Lothian shore not far from Carriden, had shaken hands with
us, and was out again at sea and rowing for Limekilns, before there was
one word said either of her service or our gratitude.

Even after she was gone, we had nothing to say, as indeed nothing was
enough for such a kindness. Only Alan stood a great while upon the shore
shaking his head.

"It is a very fine lass," he said at last. "David, it is a very fine
lass." And a matter of an hour later, as we were lying in a den on
the sea-shore and I had been already dozing, he broke out again in
commendations of her character. For my part, I could say nothing, she
was so simple a creature that my heart smote me both with remorse and
fear: remorse because we had traded upon her ignorance; and fear lest we
should have anyway involved her in the dangers of our situation.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Alan and David arrive at the house of Duncan Dhu Maclaren, who welcomes them with open arms and does his best to keep them in comfort. David is put to bed and the doctor is called. Under the doctor's supervision and the care provided by Duncan's family, David regains his health in a month's time. While David lives in the lap of security, Alan stays out in hiding during the day. David spends his time in the company of his hosts and looks out the window at the scene outside. One day Robin Oig, one of the sons of the notorious Rob Roy, comes to meet David. He makes inquiries about David's family and about his father in particular. David is not able to give him the necessary information. As Robin Oig goes out of the house, he meets Alan, an enemy of his clan, and they confront each other. Duncan tries to pacify them by making them play on his bagpipe. Thus, instead of fighting with the swords, they compete through their talent. Both of them play well, but Robin is the superior piper. Alan commends his abilities, and they part peacefully.


prompt:
Chapter: The next day it was agreed that Alan should fend for himself till
sunset; but as soon as it began to grow dark, he should lie in the
fields by the roadside near to Newhalls, and stir for naught until he
heard me whistling. At first I proposed I should give him for a signal
the "Bonnie House of Airlie," which was a favourite of mine; but he
objected that as the piece was very commonly known, any ploughman might
whistle it by accident; and taught me instead a little fragment of a
Highland air, which has run in my head from that day to this, and will
likely run in my head when I lie dying. Every time it comes to me, it
takes me off to that last day of my uncertainty, with Alan sitting up in
the bottom of the den, whistling and beating the measure with a finger,
and the grey of the dawn coming on his face.

I was in the long street of Queensferry before the sun was up. It was a
fairly built burgh, the houses of good stone, many slated; the town-hall
not so fine, I thought, as that of Peebles, nor yet the street so noble;
but take it altogether, it put me to shame for my foul tatters.

As the morning went on, and the fires began to be kindled, and the
windows to open, and the people to appear out of the houses, my concern
and despondency grew ever the blacker. I saw now that I had no grounds
to stand upon; and no clear proof of my rights, nor so much as of my own
identity. If it was all a bubble, I was indeed sorely cheated and left
in a sore pass. Even if things were as I conceived, it would in all
likelihood take time to establish my contentions; and what time had I
to spare with less than three shillings in my pocket, and a condemned,
hunted man upon my hands to ship out of the country? Truly, if my hope
broke with me, it might come to the gallows yet for both of us. And as I
continued to walk up and down, and saw people looking askance at me upon
the street or out of windows, and nudging or speaking one to another
with smiles, I began to take a fresh apprehension: that it might be no
easy matter even to come to speech of the lawyer, far less to convince
him of my story.

For the life of me I could not muster up the courage to address any of
these reputable burghers; I thought shame even to speak with them in
such a pickle of rags and dirt; and if I had asked for the house of such
a man as Mr. Rankeillor, I suppose they would have burst out laughing in
my face. So I went up and down, and through the street, and down to
the harbour-side, like a dog that has lost its master, with a strange
gnawing in my inwards, and every now and 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* 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.

     * Newly rough-cast.

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 from, Mr. David Balfour?" he asked, looking me
pretty drily in the face.

"I have come from a great many strange places, sir," said I; "but I
think it would be as well to tell you where and how in a more private
manner."

He seemed to muse awhile, holding his lip in his hand, and looking now
at me and now upon the causeway of the street.

"Yes," says he, "that will be the best, no doubt." And he led me back
with him into his house, cried out to some one whom I could not see
that he would be engaged all morning, and brought me into a little dusty
chamber full of books and documents. Here he sate down, and bade me
be seated; though I thought he looked a little ruefully from his clean
chair to my muddy rags. "And now," says he, "if you have any business,
pray be brief and come swiftly to the point. Nec gemino bellum Trojanum
orditur ab ovo--do you understand that?" says he, with a keen look.

"I will even do as Horace says, sir," I answered, smiling, "and carry
you in medias res." He nodded as if he was well pleased, and indeed his
scrap of Latin had been set to test me. For all that, and though I was
somewhat encouraged, the blood came in my face when I added: "I have
reason to believe myself some rights on the estate of Shaws."

He got a paper book out of a drawer and set it before him open. "Well?"
said he.

But I had shot my bolt and sat speechless.

"Come, come, Mr. Balfour," said he, "you must continue. Where were you
born?"

"In Essendean, sir," said I, "the year 1733, the 12th of March."

He seemed to follow this statement in his paper book; but what that
meant I knew not. "Your father and mother?" said he.

"My father was Alexander Balfour, schoolmaster of that place," said I,
"and my mother Grace Pitarrow; I think her people were from Angus."

"Have you any papers proving your identity?" asked Mr. Rankeillor.

"No, sir," said I, "but they are in the hands of Mr. Campbell, the
minister, and could be readily produced. Mr. Campbell, too, would give
me his word; and for that matter, I do not think my uncle would deny
me."

"Meaning Mr. Ebenezer Balfour?" says he.

"The same," said I.

"Whom you have seen?" he asked.

"By whom I was received into his own house," I answered.

"Did you ever meet a man of the name of Hoseason?" asked Mr. Rankeillor.

"I did so, sir, for my sins," said I; "for it was by his means and the
procurement of my uncle, that I was kidnapped within sight of this town,
carried to sea, suffered shipwreck and a hundred other hardships, and
stand before you to-day in this poor accoutrement."

"You say you were shipwrecked," said Rankeillor; "where was that?"

"Off the south end of the Isle of Mull," said I. "The name of the isle
on which I was cast up is the Island Earraid."

"Ah!" says he, smiling, "you are deeper than me in the geography. But so
far, I may tell you, this agrees pretty exactly with other informations
that I hold. But you say you were kidnapped; in what sense?"

"In the plain meaning of the word, sir," said I. "I was on my way to
your house, when I was trepanned on board the brig, cruelly struck down,
thrown below, and knew no more of anything till we were far at sea. I
was destined for the plantations; a fate that, in God's providence, I
have escaped."

"The brig was lost on June the 27th," says he, looking in his book,
"and we are now at August the 24th. Here is a considerable hiatus, Mr.
Balfour, of near upon two months. It has already caused a vast amount
of trouble to your friends; and I own I shall not be very well contented
until it is set right."

"Indeed, sir," said I, "these months are very easily filled up; but yet
before I told my story, I would be glad to know that I was talking to a
friend."

"This is to argue in a circle," said the lawyer. "I cannot be convinced
till I have heard you. I cannot be your friend till I am properly
informed. If you were more trustful, it would better befit your time of
life. And you know, Mr. Balfour, we have a proverb in the country that
evil-doers are aye evil-dreaders."

"You are not to forget, sir," said I, "that I have already suffered by
my trustfulness; and was shipped off to be a slave by the very man that
(if I rightly understand) is your employer?"

All this while I had been gaining ground with Mr. Rankeillor, and in
proportion as I gained ground, gaining confidence. But at this sally,
which I made with something of a smile myself, he fairly laughed aloud.

"No, no," said he, "it is not so bad as that. Fui, non sum. I was indeed
your uncle's man of business; but while you (imberbis juvenis custode
remoto) were gallivanting in the west, a good deal of water has run
under the bridges; and if your ears did not sing, it was not for lack of
being talked about. On the very day of your sea disaster, Mr. Campbell
stalked into my office, demanding you from all the winds. I had never
heard of your existence; but I had known your father; and from matters
in my competence (to be touched upon hereafter) I was disposed to fear
the worst. Mr. Ebenezer admitted having seen you; declared (what seemed
improbable) that he had given you considerable sums; and that you had
started for the continent of Europe, intending to fulfil your education,
which was probable and praiseworthy. Interrogated how you had come to
send no word to Mr. Campbell, he deponed that you had expressed a great
desire to break with your past life. Further interrogated where you now
were, protested ignorance, but believed you were in Leyden. That is a
close sum of his replies. I am not exactly sure that any one believed
him," continued Mr. Rankeillor with a smile; "and in particular he so
much disrelished me expressions of mine that (in a word) he showed me to
the door. We were then at a full stand; for whatever shrewd suspicions
we might entertain, we had no shadow of probation. In the very article,
comes Captain Hoseason with the story of your drowning; whereupon all
fell through; with no consequences but concern to Mr. Campbell, injury
to my pocket, and another blot upon your uncle's character, which could
very ill afford it. And now, Mr. Balfour," said he, "you understand
the whole process of these matters, and can judge for yourself to what
extent I may be trusted."

Indeed he was more pedantic than I can represent him, and placed more
scraps of Latin in his speech; but it was all uttered with a fine
geniality of eye and manner which went far to conquer my distrust.
Moreover, I could see he now treated me as if I was myself beyond a
doubt; so that first point of my identity seemed fully granted.

"Sir," said I, "if I tell you my story, I must commit a friend's life
to your discretion. Pass me your word it shall be sacred; and for what
touches myself, I will ask no better guarantee than just your face."

He passed me his word very seriously. "But," said he, "these are rather
alarming prolocutions; and if there are in your story any little jostles
to the law, I would beg you to bear in mind that I am a lawyer, and pass
lightly."

Thereupon I told him my story from the first, he listening with his
spectacles thrust up and his eyes closed, so that I sometimes feared
he was asleep. But no such matter! he heard every word (as I found
afterward) with such quickness of hearing and precision of memory as
often surprised me. Even strange outlandish Gaelic names, heard for that
time only, he remembered and would remind me of, years after. Yet when I
called Alan Breck in full, we had an odd scene. The name of Alan had of
course rung through Scotland, with the news of the Appin murder and the
offer of the reward; and it had no sooner escaped me than the lawyer
moved in his seat and opened his eyes.

"I would name no unnecessary names, Mr. Balfour," said he; "above all of
Highlanders, many of whom are obnoxious to the law."

"Well, it might have been better not," said I, "but since I have let it
slip, I may as well continue."

"Not at all," said Mr. Rankeillor. "I am somewhat dull of hearing, as
you may have remarked; and I am far from sure I caught the name exactly.
We will call your friend, if you please, Mr. Thomson--that there may
be no reflections. And in future, I would take some such way with any
Highlander that you may have to mention--dead or alive."

By this, I saw he must have heard the name all too clearly, and had
already guessed I might be coming to the murder. If he chose to play
this part of ignorance, it was no matter of mine; so I smiled, said it
was no very Highland-sounding name, and consented. Through all the rest
of my story Alan was Mr. Thomson; which amused me the more, as it was a
piece of policy after his own heart. James Stewart, in like manner,
was mentioned under the style of Mr. Thomson's kinsman; Colin Campbell
passed as a Mr. Glen; and to Cluny, when I came to that part of my tale,
I gave the name of "Mr. Jameson, a Highland chief." It was truly the
most open farce, and I wondered that the lawyer should care to keep it
up; but, after all, it was quite in the taste of that age, when there
were two parties in the state, and quiet persons, with no very high
opinions of their own, sought out every cranny to avoid offence to
either.

"Well, well," said the lawyer, when I had quite done, "this is a great
epic, a great Odyssey of yours. You must tell it, sir, in a sound
Latinity when your scholarship is riper; or in English if you please,
though for my part I prefer the stronger tongue. You have rolled
much; quae regio in terris--what parish in Scotland (to make a homely
translation) has not been filled with your wanderings? You have shown,
besides, a singular aptitude for getting into false positions; and, yes,
upon the whole, for behaving well in them. This Mr. Thomson seems to
me a gentleman of some choice qualities, though perhaps a trifle
bloody-minded. It would please me none the worse, if (with all his
merits) he were soused in the North Sea, for the man, Mr. David, is a
sore embarrassment. But you are doubtless quite right to adhere to him;
indubitably, he adhered to you. It comes--we may say--he was your true
companion; nor less paribus curis vestigia figit, for I dare say you
would both take an orra thought upon the gallows. Well, well, these days
are fortunately by; and I think (speaking humanly) that you are near
the end of your troubles."

As he thus moralised on my adventures, he looked upon me with so much
humour and benignity that I could scarce contain my satisfaction. I had
been so long wandering with lawless people, and making my bed upon the
hills and under the bare sky, that to sit once more in a clean, covered
house, and to talk amicably with a gentleman in broadcloth, seemed
mighty elevations. Even as I thought so, my eye fell on my unseemly
tatters, and I was once more plunged in confusion. But the lawyer saw
and understood me. He rose, called over the stair to lay another plate,
for Mr. Balfour would stay to dinner, and led me into a bedroom in the
upper part of the house. Here he set before me water and soap, and a
comb; and laid out some clothes that belonged to his son; and here, with
another apposite tag, he left me to my toilet.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: On reaching land, David walks towards Queensferry to go the residence of Mr. Rankeillor, his attorney. In the meantime, Alan hides himself in the fields by the roadside. David meets the lawyer, who inquires about his birth and parentage before inviting him to dine with him. Mr. Rankeillor hears the boy's tales of adventure and calls it a 'great odyssey'.


prompt:
Chapter: I made what change I could in my appearance; and blithe was I to look in
the glass and find the beggarman a thing of the past, and David Balfour
come to life again. And yet I was ashamed of the change too, and, above
all, of the borrowed clothes. When I had done, Mr. Rankeillor caught
me on the stair, made me his compliments, and had me again into the
cabinet.

"Sit ye down, Mr. David," said he, "and now that you are looking a
little more like yourself, let me see if I can find you any news. You
will be wondering, no doubt, about your father and your uncle? To be
sure it is a singular tale; and the explanation is one that I blush to
have to offer you. For," says he, really with embarrassment, "the matter
hinges on a love affair."

"Truly," said I, "I cannot very well join that notion with my uncle."

"But your uncle, Mr. David, was not always old," replied the lawyer,
"and what may perhaps surprise you more, not always ugly. He had a fine,
gallant air; people stood in their doors to look after him, as he
went by upon a mettle horse. I have seen it with these eyes, and I
ingenuously confess, not altogether without envy; for I was a plain lad
myself and a plain man's son; and in those days it was a case of Odi te,
qui bellus es, Sabelle."

"It sounds like a dream," said I.

"Ay, ay," said the lawyer, "that is how it is with youth and age. Nor
was that all, but he had a spirit of his own that seemed to promise
great things in the future. In 1715, what must he do but run away to
join the rebels? It was your father that pursued him, found him in a
ditch, and brought him back multum gementem; to the mirth of the whole
country. However, majora canamus--the two lads fell in love, and that
with the same lady. Mr. Ebenezer, who was the admired and the beloved,
and the spoiled one, made, no doubt, mighty certain of the victory;
and when he found he had deceived himself, screamed like a peacock.
The whole country heard of it; now he lay sick at home, with his silly
family standing round the bed in tears; now he rode from public-house
to public-house, and shouted his sorrows into the lug of Tom, Dick, and
Harry. Your father, Mr. David, was a kind gentleman; but he was weak,
dolefully weak; took all this folly with a long countenance; and one
day--by your leave!--resigned the lady. She was no such fool, however;
it's from her you must inherit your excellent good sense; and she
refused to be bandied from one to another. Both got upon their knees
to her; and the upshot of the matter for that while was that she showed
both of them the door. That was in August; dear me! the same year I came
from college. The scene must have been highly farcical."

I thought myself it was a silly business, but I could not forget my
father had a hand in it. "Surely, sir, it had some note of tragedy,"
said I.

"Why, no, sir, not at all," returned the lawyer. "For tragedy implies
some ponderable matter in dispute, some dignus vindice nodus; and this
piece of work was all about the petulance of a young ass that had been
spoiled, and wanted nothing so much as to be tied up and soundly belted.
However, that was not your father's view; and the end of it was, that
from concession to concession on your father's part, and from one height
to another of squalling, sentimental selfishness upon your uncle's, they
came at last to drive a sort of bargain, from whose ill results you have
recently been smarting. The one man took the lady, the other the estate.
Now, Mr. David, they talk a great deal of charity and generosity; but in
this disputable state of life, I often think the happiest consequences
seem to flow when a gentleman consults his lawyer, and takes all the law
allows him. Anyhow, this piece of Quixotry on your father's part, as
it was unjust in itself, has brought forth a monstrous family of
injustices. Your father and mother lived and died poor folk; you were
poorly reared; and in the meanwhile, what a time it has been for the
tenants on the estate of Shaws! And I might add (if it was a matter I
cared much about) what a time for Mr. Ebenezer!"

"And yet that is certainly the strangest part of all," said I, "that a
man's nature should thus change."

"True," said Mr. Rankeillor. "And yet I imagine it was natural enough.
He could not think that he had played a handsome part. Those who knew
the story gave him the cold shoulder; those who knew it not, seeing one
brother disappear, and the other succeed in the estate, raised a cry of
murder; so that upon all sides he found himself evited. Money was all
he got by his bargain; well, he came to think the more of money. He was
selfish when he was young, he is selfish now that he is old; and the
latter end of all these pretty manners and fine feelings you have seen
for yourself."

"Well, sir," said I, "and in all this, what is my position?"

"The estate is yours beyond a doubt," replied the lawyer. "It matters
nothing what your father signed, you are the heir of entail. But your
uncle is a man to fight the indefensible; and it would be likely your
identity that he would call in question. A lawsuit is always expensive,
and a family lawsuit always scandalous; besides which, if any of your
doings with your friend Mr. Thomson were to come out, we might find that
we had burned our fingers. The kidnapping, to be sure, would be a court
card upon our side, if we could only prove it. But it may be difficult
to prove; and my advice (upon the whole) is to make a very easy bargain
with your uncle, perhaps even leaving him at Shaws where he has
taken root for a quarter of a century, and contenting yourself in the
meanwhile with a fair provision."

I told him I was very willing to be easy, and that to carry family
concerns before the public was a step from which I was naturally much
averse. In the meantime (thinking to myself) I began to see the outlines
of that scheme on which we afterwards acted.

"The great affair," I asked, "is to bring home to him the kidnapping?"

"Surely," said Mr. Rankeillor, "and if possible, out of court. For mark
you here, Mr. David: we could no doubt find some men of the Covenant who
would swear to your reclusion; but once they were in the box, we could
no longer check their testimony, and some word of your friend Mr.
Thomson must certainly crop out. Which (from what you have let fall) I
cannot think to be desirable."

"Well, sir," said I, "here is my way of it." And I opened my plot to
him.

"But this would seem to involve my meeting the man Thomson?" says he,
when I had done.

"I think so, indeed, sir," said I.

"Dear doctor!" cries he, rubbing his brow. "Dear doctor! No, Mr. David,
I am afraid your scheme is inadmissible. I say nothing against your
friend, Mr. Thomson: I know nothing against him; and if I did--mark
this, Mr. David!--it would be my duty to lay hands on him. Now I put it
to you: is it wise to meet? He may have matters to his charge. He may
not have told you all. His name may not be even Thomson!" cries the
lawyer, twinkling; "for some of these fellows will pick up names by the
roadside as another would gather haws."

"You must be the judge, sir," said I.

But it was clear my plan had taken hold upon his fancy, for he kept
musing to himself till we were called to dinner and the company of Mrs.
Rankeillor; and that lady had scarce left us again to ourselves and a
bottle of wine, ere he was back harping on my proposal. When and where
was I to meet my friend Mr. Thomson; was I sure of Mr. T.'s discretion;
supposing we could catch the old fox tripping, would I consent to such
and such a term of an agreement--these and the like questions he kept
asking at long intervals, while he thoughtfully rolled his wine upon his
tongue. When I had answered all of them, seemingly to his contentment,
he fell into a still deeper muse, even the claret being now forgotten.
Then he got a sheet of paper and a pencil, and set to work writing and
weighing every word; and at last touched a bell and had his clerk into
the chamber.

"Torrance," said he, "I must have this written out fair against
to-night; and when it is done, you will be so kind as put on your hat
and be ready to come along with this gentleman and me, for you will
probably be wanted as a witness."

"What, sir," cried I, as soon as the clerk was gone, "are you to venture
it?"

"Why, so it would appear," says he, filling his glass. "But let us speak
no more of business. The very sight of Torrance brings in my head a
little droll matter of some years ago, when I had made a tryst with the
poor oaf at the cross of Edinburgh. Each had gone his proper errand; and
when it came four o'clock, Torrance had been taking a glass and did
not know his master, and I, who had forgot my spectacles, was so blind
without them, that I give you my word I did not know my own clerk." And
thereupon he laughed heartily.

I said it was an odd chance, and smiled out of politeness; but what held
me all the afternoon in wonder, he kept returning and dwelling on this
story, and telling it again with fresh details and laughter; so that I
began at last to be quite put out of countenance and feel ashamed for my
friend's folly.

Towards the time I had appointed with Alan, we set out from the house,
Mr. Rankeillor and I arm in arm, and Torrance following behind with the
deed in his pocket and a covered basket in his hand. All through the
town, the lawyer was bowing right and left, and continually being
button-holed by gentlemen on matters of burgh or private business; and I
could see he was one greatly looked up to in the county. At last we were
clear of the houses, and began to go along the side of the haven and
towards the Hawes Inn and the Ferry pier, the scene of my misfortune. I
could not look upon the place without emotion, recalling how many that
had been there with me that day were now no more: Ransome taken, I could
hope, from the evil to come; Shuan passed where I dared not follow him;
and the poor souls that had gone down with the brig in her last plunge.
All these, and the brig herself, I had outlived; and come through these
hardships and fearful perils without scath. My only thought should have
been of gratitude; and yet I could not behold the place without sorrow
for others and a chill of recollected fear.

I was so thinking when, upon a sudden, Mr. Rankeillor cried out, clapped
his hand to his pockets, and began to laugh.

"Why," he cries, "if this be not a farcical adventure! After all that I
said, I have forgot my glasses!"

At that, of course, I understood the purpose of his anecdote, and knew
that if he had left his spectacles at home, it had been done on purpose,
so that he might have the benefit of Alan's help without the awkwardness
of recognising him. And indeed it was well thought upon; for now
(suppose things to go the very worst) how could Rankeillor swear to
my friend's identity, or how be made to bear damaging evidence against
myself? For all that, he had been a long while of finding out his want,
and had spoken to and recognised a good few persons as we came through
the town; and I had little doubt myself that he saw reasonably well.

As soon as we were past the Hawes (where I recognised the landlord
smoking his pipe in the door, and was amazed to see him look no older)
Mr. Rankeillor changed the order of march, walking behind with Torrance
and sending me forward in the manner of a scout. I went up the hill,
whistling from time to time my Gaelic air; and at length I had the
pleasure to hear it answered and to see Alan rise from behind a bush. He
was somewhat dashed in spirits, having passed a long day alone skulking
in the county, and made but a poor meal in an alehouse near Dundas. But
at the mere sight of my clothes, he began to brighten up; and as soon as
I had told him in what a forward state our matters were and the part I
looked to him to play in what remained, he sprang into a new man.

"And that is a very good notion of yours," says he; "and I dare to say
that you could lay your hands upon no better man to put it through than
Alan Breck. It is not a thing (mark ye) that any one could do, but takes
a gentleman of penetration. But it sticks in my head your lawyer-man
will be somewhat wearying to see me," says Alan.

Accordingly I cried and waved on Mr. Rankeillor, who came up alone and
was presented to my friend, Mr. Thomson.

"Mr. Thomson, I am pleased to meet you," said he. "But I have forgotten
my glasses; and our friend, Mr. David here" (clapping me on the
shoulder), "will tell you that I am little better than blind, and that
you must not be surprised if I pass you by to-morrow."

This he said, thinking that Alan would be pleased; but the Highlandman's
vanity was ready to startle at a less matter than that.

"Why, sir," says he, stiffly, "I would say it mattered the less as we
are met here for a particular end, to see justice done to Mr. Balfour;
and by what I can see, not very likely to have much else in common. But
I accept your apology, which was a very proper one to make."

"And that is more than I could look for, Mr. Thomson," said Rankeillor,
heartily. "And now as you and I are the chief actors in this enterprise,
I think we should come into a nice agreement; to which end, I propose
that you should lend me your arm, for (what with the dusk and the want
of my glasses) I am not very clear as to the path; and as for you, Mr.
David, you will find Torrance a pleasant kind of body to speak with.
Only let me remind you, it's quite needless he should hear more of your
adventures or those of--ahem--Mr. Thomson."

Accordingly these two went on ahead in very close talk, and Torrance and
I brought up the rear.

Night was quite come when we came in view of the house of Shaws. Ten
had been gone some time; it was dark and mild, with a pleasant, rustling
wind in the south-west that covered the sound of our approach; and as we
drew near we saw no glimmer of light in any portion of the building. It
seemed my uncle was already in bed, which was indeed the best thing for
our arrangements. We made our last whispered consultations some fifty
yards away; and then the lawyer and Torrance and I crept quietly up and
crouched down beside the corner of the house; and as soon as we were
in our places, Alan strode to the door without concealment and began to
knock.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: On reaching land, David walks towards Queensferry to go the residence of Mr. Rankeillor, his attorney. In the meantime, Alan hides himself in the fields by the roadside. David meets the lawyer, who inquires about his birth and parentage before inviting him to dine with him. Mr. Rankeillor hears the boy's tales of adventure and calls it a 'great odyssey'.


prompt:
Chapter: For some time Alan volleyed upon the door, and his knocking only roused
the echoes of the house and neighbourhood. At last, however, I could
hear the noise of a window gently thrust up, and knew that my uncle
had come to his observatory. By what light there was, he would see Alan
standing, like a dark shadow, on the steps; the three witnesses were
hidden quite out of his view; so that there was nothing to alarm an
honest man in his own house. For all that, he studied his visitor awhile
in silence, and when he spoke his voice had a quaver of misgiving.

"What's this?" says he. "This is nae kind of time of night for decent
folk; and I hae nae trokings* wi' night-hawks. What brings ye here? I
have a blunderbush."

     * Dealings.

"Is that yoursel', Mr. Balfour?" returned Alan, stepping back and
looking up into the darkness. "Have a care of that blunderbuss; they're
nasty things to burst."

"What brings ye here? and whae are ye?" says my uncle, angrily.

"I have no manner of inclination to rowt out my name to the
country-side," said Alan; "but what brings me here is another story,
being more of your affair than mine; and if ye're sure it's what ye
would like, I'll set it to a tune and sing it to you."

"And what is't?" asked my uncle.

"David," says Alan.

"What was that?" cried my uncle, in a mighty changed voice.

"Shall I give ye the rest of the name, then?" said Alan.

There was a pause; and then, "I'm thinking I'll better let ye in," says
my uncle, doubtfully.

"I dare say that," said Alan; "but the point is, Would I go? Now I will
tell you what I am thinking. I am thinking that it is here upon this
doorstep that we must confer upon this business; and it shall be here or
nowhere at all whatever; for I would have you to understand that I am as
stiffnecked as yoursel', and a gentleman of better family."

This change of note disconcerted Ebenezer; he was a little while
digesting it, and then says he, "Weel, weel, what must be must," and
shut the window. But it took him a long time to get down-stairs, and a
still longer to undo the fastenings, repenting (I dare say) and taken
with fresh claps of fear at every second step and every bolt and bar. At
last, however, we heard the creak of the hinges, and it seems my uncle
slipped gingerly out and (seeing that Alan had stepped back a pace or
two) sate him down on the top doorstep with the blunderbuss ready in his
hands.

"And, now" says he, "mind I have my blunderbush, and if ye take a step
nearer ye're as good as deid."

"And a very civil speech," says Alan, "to be sure."

"Na," says my uncle, "but this is no a very chanty kind of a proceeding,
and I'm bound to be prepared. And now that we understand each other,
ye'll can name your business."

"Why," says Alan, "you that are a man of so much understanding, will
doubtless have perceived that I am a Hieland gentleman. My name has nae
business in my story; but the county of my friends is no very far from
the Isle of Mull, of which ye will have heard. It seems there was a
ship lost in those parts; and the next day a gentleman of my family was
seeking wreck-wood for his fire along the sands, when he came upon a lad
that was half drowned. Well, he brought him to; and he and some other
gentleman took and clapped him in an auld, ruined castle, where from
that day to this he has been a great expense to my friends. My friends
are a wee wild-like, and not so particular about the law as some that
I could name; and finding that the lad owned some decent folk, and was
your born nephew, Mr. Balfour, they asked me to give ye a bit call and
confer upon the matter. And I may tell ye at the off-go, unless we can
agree upon some terms, ye are little likely to set eyes upon him. For my
friends," added Alan, simply, "are no very well off."

My uncle cleared his throat. "I'm no very caring," says he. "He wasnae a
good lad at the best of it, and I've nae call to interfere."

"Ay, ay," said Alan, "I see what ye would be at: pretending ye don't
care, to make the ransom smaller."

"Na," said my uncle, "it's the mere truth. I take nae manner of interest
in the lad, and I'll pay nae ransome, and ye can make a kirk and a mill
of him for what I care."

"Hoot, sir," says Alan. "Blood's thicker than water, in the deil's name!
Ye cannae desert your brother's son for the fair shame of it; and if
ye did, and it came to be kennt, ye wouldnae be very popular in your
country-side, or I'm the more deceived."

"I'm no just very popular the way it is," returned Ebenezer; "and I
dinnae see how it would come to be kennt. No by me, onyway; nor yet by
you or your friends. So that's idle talk, my buckie," says he.

"Then it'll have to be David that tells it," said Alan.

"How that?" says my uncle, sharply.

"Ou, just this way," says Alan. "My friends would doubtless keep your
nephew as long as there was any likelihood of siller to be made of it,
but if there was nane, I am clearly of opinion they would let him gang
where he pleased, and be damned to him!"

"Ay, but I'm no very caring about that either," said my uncle. "I
wouldnae be muckle made up with that."

"I was thinking that," said Alan.

"And what for why?" asked Ebenezer.

"Why, Mr. Balfour," replied Alan, "by all that I could hear, there were
two ways of it: either ye liked David and would pay to get him back; or
else ye had very good reasons for not wanting him, and would pay for us
to keep him. It seems it's not the first; well then, it's the second;
and blythe am I to ken it, for it should be a pretty penny in my pocket
and the pockets of my friends."

"I dinnae follow ye there," said my uncle.

"No?" said Alan. "Well, see here: you dinnae want the lad back; well,
what do ye want done with him, and how much will ye pay?"

My uncle made no answer, but shifted uneasily on his seat.

"Come, sir," cried Alan. "I would have you to ken that I am a gentleman;
I bear a king's name; I am nae rider to kick my shanks at your hall
door. Either give me an answer in civility, and that out of hand; or by
the top of Glencoe, I will ram three feet of iron through your vitals."

"Eh, man," cried my uncle, scrambling to his feet, "give me a meenit!
What's like wrong with ye? I'm just a plain man and nae dancing master;
and I'm tryin to be as ceevil as it's morally possible. As for that wild
talk, it's fair disrepitable. Vitals, says you! And where would I be
with my blunderbush?" he snarled.

"Powder and your auld hands are but as the snail to the swallow against
the bright steel in the hands of Alan," said the other. "Before your
jottering finger could find the trigger, the hilt would dirl on your
breast-bane."

"Eh, man, whae's denying it?" said my uncle. "Pit it as ye please, hae't
your ain way; I'll do naething to cross ye. Just tell me what like ye'll
be wanting, and ye'll see that we'll can agree fine."

"Troth, sir," said Alan, "I ask for nothing but plain dealing. In two
words: do ye want the lad killed or kept?"

"O, sirs!" cried Ebenezer. "O, sirs, me! that's no kind of language!"

"Killed or kept!" repeated Alan.

"O, keepit, keepit!" wailed my uncle. "We'll have nae bloodshed, if you
please."

"Well," says Alan, "as ye please; that'll be the dearer."

"The dearer?" cries Ebenezer. "Would ye fyle your hands wi' crime?"

"Hoot!" said Alan, "they're baith crime, whatever! And the killing's
easier, and quicker, and surer. Keeping the lad'll be a fashious* job, a
fashious, kittle business."

     * Troublesome.

"I'll have him keepit, though," returned my uncle. "I never had naething
to do with onything morally wrong; and I'm no gaun to begin to pleasure
a wild Hielandman."

"Ye're unco scrupulous," sneered Alan.

"I'm a man o' principle," said Ebenezer, simply; "and if I have to pay
for it, I'll have to pay for it. And besides," says he, "ye forget the
lad's my brother's son."

"Well, well," said Alan, "and now about the price. It's no very easy for
me to set a name upon it; I would first have to ken some small matters.
I would have to ken, for instance, what ye gave Hoseason at the first
off-go?"

"Hoseason!" cries my uncle, struck aback. "What for?"

"For kidnapping David," says Alan.

"It's a lee, it's a black lee!" cried my uncle. "He was never kidnapped.
He leed in his throat that tauld ye that. Kidnapped? He never was!"

"That's no fault of mine nor yet of yours," said Alan; "nor yet of
Hoseason's, if he's a man that can be trusted."

"What do ye mean?" cried Ebenezer. "Did Hoseason tell ye?"

"Why, ye donnered auld runt, how else would I ken?" cried Alan.
"Hoseason and me are partners; we gang shares; so ye can see for
yoursel' what good ye can do leeing. And I must plainly say ye drove a
fool's bargain when ye let a man like the sailor-man so far forward in
your private matters. But that's past praying for; and ye must lie on
your bed the way ye made it. And the point in hand is just this: what
did ye pay him?"

"Has he tauld ye himsel'?" asked my uncle.

"That's my concern," said Alan.

"Weel," said my uncle, "I dinnae care what he said, he leed, and the
solemn God's truth is this, that I gave him twenty pound. But I'll be
perfec'ly honest with ye: forby that, he was to have the selling of the
lad in Caroliny, whilk would be as muckle mair, but no from my pocket,
ye see."

"Thank you, Mr. Thomson. That will do excellently well," said the
lawyer, stepping forward; and then mighty civilly, "Good-evening, Mr.
Balfour," said he.

And, "Good-evening, Uncle Ebenezer," said I.

And, "It's a braw nicht, Mr. Balfour," added Torrance.

Never a word said my uncle, neither black nor white; but just sat where
he was on the top door-step and stared upon us like a man turned to
stone. Alan filched away his blunderbuss; and the lawyer, taking him
by the arm, plucked him up from the doorstep, led him into the kitchen,
whither we all followed, and set him down in a chair beside the hearth,
where the fire was out and only a rush-light burning.

There we all looked upon him for a while, exulting greatly in our
success, but yet with a sort of pity for the man's shame.

"Come, come, Mr. Ebenezer," said the lawyer, "you must not be
down-hearted, for I promise you we shall make easy terms. In the
meanwhile give us the cellar key, and Torrance shall draw us a bottle
of your father's wine in honour of the event." Then, turning to me and
taking me by the hand, "Mr. David," says he, "I wish you all joy in your
good fortune, which I believe to be deserved." And then to Alan, with
a spice of drollery, "Mr. Thomson, I pay you my compliment; it was
most artfully conducted; but in one point you somewhat outran my
comprehension. Do I understand your name to be James? or Charles? or is
it George, perhaps?"

"And why should it be any of the three, sir?" quoth Alan, drawing
himself up, like one who smelt an offence.

"Only, sir, that you mentioned a king's name," replied Rankeillor; "and
as there has never yet been a King Thomson, or his fame at least has
never come my way, I judged you must refer to that you had in baptism."

This was just the stab that Alan would feel keenest, and I am free to
confess he took it very ill. Not a word would he answer, but stepped off
to the far end of the kitchen, and sat down and sulked; and it was not
till I stepped after him, and gave him my hand, and thanked him by title
as the chief spring of my success, that he began to smile a bit, and was
at last prevailed upon to join our party.

By that time we had the fire lighted, and a bottle of wine uncorked; a
good supper came out of the basket, to which Torrance and I and Alan
set ourselves down; while the lawyer and my uncle passed into the next
chamber to consult. They stayed there closeted about an hour; at the end
of which period they had come to a good understanding, and my uncle and
I set our hands to the agreement in a formal manner. By the terms
of this, my uncle bound himself to satisfy Rankeillor as to his
intromissions, and to pay me two clear thirds of the yearly income of
Shaws.

So the beggar in the ballad had come home; and when I lay down that
night on the kitchen chests, I was a man of means and had a name in the
country. Alan and Torrance and Rankeillor slept and snored on their hard
beds; but for me who had lain out under heaven and upon dirt and stones,
so many days and nights, and often with an empty belly, and in fear
of death, this good change in my case unmanned me more than any of the
former evil ones; and I lay till dawn, looking at the fire on the roof
and planning the future.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mr. Ebenezer makes his appearance first at the window and then at the door. He listens to Alan's claim that he has news of David. Armed with a gun, he threatens Alan of the consequences if he is proved a liar. Ebenezer then listens to Alan's fabricated tale of how David had been saved from drowning and kept in a ruined castle. Since the expense of looking after the boy was proving costly, Alan asks Ebenezer for money for the boy's maintenance. After the old man agrees to pay, Alan extracts information from him about the kidnapping of David. Unwittingly, Ebenezer confesses his role in the kidnapping and explains that he had given Hoseason twenty pounds to do the job. Once the disclosure is made, all three men step forward from their hiding places to seize Ebenezer. When Rankeillor takes Mr. Balfour aside to settle property matters, Ebenezer agrees to give David two-thirds of the entire property of Shaws. David, Alan and Torrance celebrate the occasion with drinks.


prompt:
Chapter: So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still
Alan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a
heavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both
these heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and
fro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing
in view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors' and were
now mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a
glad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.

About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help
him out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was
of a different mind.

"Mr. Thomson," says he, "is one thing, Mr. Thomson's kinsman quite
another. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble
(whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.)* has some concern and
is even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is
doubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocuere deos.
If you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there is
one way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock.
There, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson's kinsman. You
will object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be tried
for your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and with
a Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to the
gallows."

     * The Duke of Argyle.

Now I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply
to them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. "In that case, sir,"
said I, "I would just have to be hanged--would I not?"

"My dear boy," cries he, "go in God's name, and do what you think is
right. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising
you to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology.
Go and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There
are worse things in the world than to be hanged."

"Not many, sir," said I, smiling.

"Why, yes, sir," he cried, "very many. And it would be ten times better
for your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently
upon a gibbet."

Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind,
so that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two
letters, making his comments on them as he wrote.

"This," says he, "is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a
credit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and
you, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a good
husband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson,
I would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way
than that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer
testimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and
will turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well
recommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the
learned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better
that you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of
Pilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord
Advocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any
particulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to
Mr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you
deal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may the
Lord guide you, Mr. David!"

Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry,
while Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went
by the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we
kept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and
great and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top
windows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back
and forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little
welcome when I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I
was watched as I went away.

Alan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either
to walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were
near the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days
sate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it
was resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now
there, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be
able to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger.
In the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart,
and a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to
find a ship and to arrange for Alan's safe embarkation. No sooner was
this business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I
would seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with
me on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we
were nearer tears than laughter.

We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got
near to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on
Corstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we
both stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to
where our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been
agreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at
which Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any
that came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of
Rankeillor's) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we
stood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.

"Well, good-bye," said Alan, and held out his left hand.

"Good-bye," said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down
hill.

Neither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in
my view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as
I went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could
have found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like
any baby.

It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the
Grassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the
buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched
entries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants
in their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the
fine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention,
struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd
carry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was
Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think
I would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties)
there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something
wrong.

The hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of
the British Linen Company's bank.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mr. Ebenezer makes his appearance first at the window and then at the door. He listens to Alan's claim that he has news of David. Armed with a gun, he threatens Alan of the consequences if he is proved a liar. Ebenezer then listens to Alan's fabricated tale of how David had been saved from drowning and kept in a ruined castle. Since the expense of looking after the boy was proving costly, Alan asks Ebenezer for money for the boy's maintenance. After the old man agrees to pay, Alan extracts information from him about the kidnapping of David. Unwittingly, Ebenezer confesses his role in the kidnapping and explains that he had given Hoseason twenty pounds to do the job. Once the disclosure is made, all three men step forward from their hiding places to seize Ebenezer. When Rankeillor takes Mr. Balfour aside to settle property matters, Ebenezer agrees to give David two-thirds of the entire property of Shaws. David, Alan and Torrance celebrate the occasion with drinks.


prompt:
Chapter: I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in
the month of June, the year of grace 1751, when I took the key for the
last time out of the door of my father's house. The sun began to shine
upon the summit of the hills as I went down the road; and by the time
I had come as far as the manse, the blackbirds were whistling in the
garden lilacs, and the mist that hung around the valley in the time of
the dawn was beginning to arise and die away.

Mr. Campbell, the minister of Essendean, was waiting for me by the
garden gate, good man! He asked me if I had breakfasted; and hearing
that I lacked for nothing, he took my hand in both of his and clapped it
kindly under his arm.

"Well, Davie, lad," said he, "I will go with you as far as the ford, to
set you on the way." And we began to walk forward in silence.

"Are ye sorry to leave Essendean?" said he, after awhile.

"Why, sir," said I, "if I knew where I was going, or what was likely
to become of me, I would tell you candidly. Essendean is a good place
indeed, and I have been very happy there; but then I have never been
anywhere else. My father and mother, since they are both dead, I shall
be no nearer to in Essendean than in the Kingdom of Hungary, and, to
speak truth, if I thought I had a chance to better myself where I was
going I would go with a good will."

"Ay?" said Mr. Campbell. "Very well, Davie. Then it behoves me to tell
your fortune; or so far as I may. When your mother was gone, and your
father (the worthy, Christian man) began to sicken for his end, he gave
me in charge a certain letter, which he said was your inheritance. 'So
soon,' says he, 'as I am gone, and the house is redd up and the gear
disposed of' (all which, Davie, hath been done), 'give my boy this
letter into his hand, and start him off to the house of Shaws, not far
from Cramond. That is the place I came from,' he said, 'and it's where
it befits that my boy should return. He is a steady lad,' your father
said, 'and a canny goer; and I doubt not he will come safe, and be well
lived where he goes.'"

"The house of Shaws!" I cried. "What had my poor father to do with the
house of Shaws?"

"Nay," said Mr. Campbell, "who can tell that for a surety? But the name
of that family, Davie, boy, is the name you bear--Balfours of Shaws:
an ancient, honest, reputable house, peradventure in these latter
days decayed. Your father, too, was a man of learning as befitted his
position; no man more plausibly conducted school; nor had he the manner
or the speech of a common dominie; but (as ye will yourself remember)
I took aye a pleasure to have him to the manse to meet the gentry; and
those of my own house, Campbell of Kilrennet, Campbell of Dunswire,
Campbell of Minch, and others, all well-kenned gentlemen, had pleasure
in his society. Lastly, to put all the elements of this affair before
you, here is the testamentary letter itself, superscrived by the own
hand of our departed brother."

He gave me the letter, which was addressed in these words: "To the hands
of Ebenezer Balfour, Esquire, of Shaws, in his house of Shaws, these
will be delivered by my son, David Balfour." My heart was beating hard
at this great prospect now suddenly opening before a lad of seventeen
years of age, the son of a poor country dominie in the Forest of
Ettrick.

"Mr. Campbell," I stammered, "and if you were in my shoes, would you
go?"

"Of a surety," said the minister, "that would I, and without pause.
A pretty lad like you should get to Cramond (which is near in by
Edinburgh) in two days of walk. If the worst came to the worst, and
your high relations (as I cannot but suppose them to be somewhat of your
blood) should put you to the door, ye can but walk the two days back
again and risp at the manse door. But I would rather hope that ye shall
be well received, as your poor father forecast for you, and for anything
that I ken come to be a great man in time. And here, Davie, laddie," he
resumed, "it lies near upon my conscience to improve this parting, and
set you on the right guard against the dangers of the world."

Here he cast about for a comfortable seat, lighted on a big boulder
under a birch by the trackside, sate down upon it with a very long,
serious upper lip, and the sun now shining in upon us between two peaks,
put his pocket-handkerchief over his cocked hat to shelter him. There,
then, with uplifted forefinger, he first put me on my guard against a
considerable number of heresies, to which I had no temptation, and urged
upon me to be instant in my prayers and reading of the Bible. That done,
he drew a picture of the great house that I was bound to, and how I
should conduct myself with its inhabitants.

"Be soople, Davie, in things immaterial," said he. "Bear ye this in
mind, that, though gentle born, ye have had a country rearing. Dinnae
shame us, Davie, dinnae shame us! In yon great, muckle house, with all
these domestics, upper and under, show yourself as nice, as circumspect,
as quick at the conception, and as slow of speech as any. As for the
laird--remember he's the laird; I say no more: honour to whom honour.
It's a pleasure to obey a laird; or should be, to the young."

"Well, sir," said I, "it may be; and I'll promise you I'll try to make
it so."

"Why, very well said," replied Mr. Campbell, heartily. "And now to come
to the material, or (to make a quibble) to the immaterial. I have here
a little packet which contains four things." He tugged it, as he spoke,
and with some great difficulty, from the skirt pocket of his coat. "Of
these four things, the first is your legal due: the little pickle money
for your father's books and plenishing, which I have bought (as I have
explained from the first) in the design of re-selling at a profit to
the incoming dominie. The other three are gifties that Mrs. Campbell and
myself would be blithe of your acceptance. The first, which is round,
will likely please ye best at the first off-go; but, O Davie, laddie,
it's but a drop of water in the sea; it'll help you but a step, and
vanish like the morning. The second, which is flat and square and
written upon, will stand by you through life, like a good staff for the
road, and a good pillow to your head in sickness. And as for the last,
which is cubical, that'll see you, it's my prayerful wish, into a better
land."

With that he got upon his feet, took off his hat, and prayed a little
while aloud, and in affecting terms, for a young man setting out into
the world; then suddenly took me in his arms and embraced me very hard;
then held me at arm's length, looking at me with his face all working
with sorrow; and then whipped about, and crying good-bye to me, set off
backward by the way that we had come at a sort of jogging run. It might
have been laughable to another; but I was in no mind to laugh. I watched
him as long as he was in sight; and he never stopped hurrying, nor once
looked back. Then it came in upon my mind that this was all his sorrow
at my departure; and my conscience smote me hard and fast, because I,
for my part, was overjoyed to get away out of that quiet country-side,
and go to a great, busy house, among rich and respected gentlefolk of my
own name and blood.

"Davie, Davie," I thought, "was ever seen such black ingratitude? Can
you forget old favours and old friends at the mere whistle of a name?
Fie, fie; think shame."

And I sat down on the boulder the good man had just left, and opened the
parcel to see the nature of my gifts. That which he had called cubical,
I had never had much doubt of; sure enough it was a little Bible, to
carry in a plaid-neuk. That which he had called round, I found to be a
shilling piece; and the third, which was to help me so wonderfully both
in health and sickness all the days of my life, was a little piece of
coarse yellow paper, written upon thus in red ink:

"TO MAKE LILLY OF THE VALLEY WATER.--Take the flowers of lilly of the
valley and distil them in sack, and drink a spooneful or two as there is
occasion. It restores speech to those that have the dumb palsey. It is
good against the Gout; it comforts the heart and strengthens the memory;
and the flowers, put into a Glasse, close stopt, and set into ane hill
of ants for a month, then take it out, and you will find a liquor which
comes from the flowers, which keep in a vial; it is good, ill or well,
and whether man or woman."

And then, in the minister's own hand, was added:

"Likewise for sprains, rub it in; and for the cholic, a great spooneful
in the hour."

To be sure, I laughed over this; but it was rather tremulous laughter;
and I was glad to get my bundle on my staff's end and set out over the
ford and up the hill upon the farther side; till, just as I came on the
green drove-road running wide through the heather, I took my last look
of Kirk Essendean, the trees about the manse, and the big rowans in the
kirkyard where my father and my mother lay.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The sixteen-year-old narrator, David Balfour, begins his story one morning in June 1751 as he is leaving his family home in Essendean, in the Lowlands of Scotland to seek his fortune. His father has recently died and his mother has been dead for some time. Mr. Campbell, the preacher who has looked after David since his father's death, meets him at the garden gate. Mr. Campbell reveals that before David's father died, he gave him a letter for David detailing David's inheritance. Mr. Campbell adds that David's father wanted his son to go to the house of Shaws, near Edinburgh, which is where David's father came from. Mr. Campbell explains that the house of Shaws belongs to the Balfour family, and that David is a relative of theirs. Mr. Campbell gives David the letter, which is addressed to Ebenezer Balfour of Shaws. Mr. Campbell encourages David to go to the house of Shaws, as the worst that can happen is that David's relatives turn him away and he has to make the two-day journey back. Before David departs, Mr. Campbell gives him four things: the small sum of money left to him from his father's estate, a shilling from Mr. Campbell and his wife, a Bible, and a recipe for a healing water made from lilies of the valley


prompt:
Chapter: On the forenoon of the second day, coming to the top of a hill, I saw
all the country fall away before me down to the sea; and in the midst
of this descent, on a long ridge, the city of Edinburgh smoking like
a kiln. There was a flag upon the castle, and ships moving or lying
anchored in the firth; both of which, for as far away as they were, I
could distinguish clearly; and both brought my country heart into my
mouth.

Presently after, I came by a house where a shepherd lived, and got a
rough direction for the neighbourhood of Cramond; and so, from one to
another, worked my way to the westward of the capital by Colinton, till
I came out upon the Glasgow road. And there, to my great pleasure and
wonder, I beheld a regiment marching to the fifes, every foot in time;
an old red-faced general on a grey horse at the one end, and at the
other the company of Grenadiers, with their Pope's-hats. The pride of
life seemed to mount into my brain at the sight of the red coats and the
hearing of that merry music.

A little farther on, and I was told I was in Cramond parish, and began
to substitute in my inquiries the name of the house of Shaws. It was a
word that seemed to surprise those of whom I sought my way. At first I
thought the plainness of my appearance, in my country habit, and that
all dusty from the road, consorted ill with the greatness of the place
to which I was bound. But after two, or maybe three, had given me the
same look and the same answer, I began to take it in my head there was
something strange about the Shaws itself.

The better to set this fear at rest, I changed the form of my inquiries;
and spying an honest fellow coming along a lane on the shaft of his
cart, I asked him if he had ever heard tell of a house they called the
house of Shaws.

He stopped his cart and looked at me, like the others.

"Ay" said he. "What for?"

"It's a great house?" I asked.

"Doubtless," says he. "The house is a big, muckle house."

"Ay," said I, "but the folk that are in it?"

"Folk?" cried he. "Are ye daft? There's nae folk there--to call folk."

"What?" say I; "not Mr. Ebenezer?"

"Ou, ay" says the man; "there's the laird, to be sure, if it's him
you're wanting. What'll like be your business, mannie?"

"I was led to think that I would get a situation," I said, looking as
modest as I could.

"What?" cries the carter, in so sharp a note that his very horse
started; and then, "Well, mannie," he added, "it's nane of my affairs;
but ye seem a decent-spoken lad; and if ye'll take a word from me, ye'll
keep clear of the Shaws."

The next person I came across was a dapper little man in a beautiful
white wig, whom I saw to be a barber on his rounds; and knowing well
that barbers were great gossips, I asked him plainly what sort of a man
was Mr. Balfour of the Shaws.

"Hoot, hoot, hoot," said the barber, "nae kind of a man, nae kind of a
man at all;" and began to ask me very shrewdly what my business was;
but I was more than a match for him at that, and he went on to his next
customer no wiser than he came.

I cannot well describe the blow this dealt to my illusions. The more
indistinct the accusations were, the less I liked them, for they left
the wider field to fancy. What kind of a great house was this, that all
the parish should start and stare to be asked the way to it? or what
sort of a gentleman, that his ill-fame should be thus current on the
wayside? If an hour's walking would have brought me back to Essendean, I
had left my adventure then and there, and returned to Mr. Campbell's.
But when I had come so far a way already, mere shame would not suffer me
to desist till I had put the matter to the touch of proof; I was bound,
out of mere self-respect, to carry it through; and little as I liked
the sound of what I heard, and slow as I began to travel, I still kept
asking my way and still kept advancing.

It was drawing on to sundown when I met a stout, dark, sour-looking
woman coming trudging down a hill; and she, when I had put my usual
question, turned sharp about, accompanied me back to the summit she had
just left, and pointed to a great bulk of building standing very bare
upon a green in the bottom of the next valley. The country was pleasant
round about, running in low hills, pleasantly watered and wooded, and
the crops, to my eyes, wonderfully good; but the house itself appeared
to be a kind of ruin; no road led up to it; no smoke arose from any of
the chimneys; nor was there any semblance of a garden. My heart sank.
"That!" I cried.

The woman's face lit up with a malignant anger. "That is the house of
Shaws!" she cried. "Blood built it; blood stopped the building of it;
blood shall bring it down. See here!" she cried again--"I spit upon
the ground, and crack my thumb at it! Black be its fall! If ye see the
laird, tell him what ye hear; tell him this makes the twelve hunner and
nineteen time that Jennet Clouston has called down the curse on him
and his house, byre and stable, man, guest, and master, wife, miss, or
bairn--black, black be their fall!"

And the woman, whose voice had risen to a kind of eldritch sing-song,
turned with a skip, and was gone. I stood where she left me, with my
hair on end. In those days folk still believed in witches and trembled
at a curse; and this one, falling so pat, like a wayside omen, to arrest
me ere I carried out my purpose, took the pith out of my legs.

I sat me down and stared at the house of Shaws. The more I looked,
the pleasanter that country-side appeared; being all set with hawthorn
bushes full of flowers; the fields dotted with sheep; a fine flight of
rooks in the sky; and every sign of a kind soil and climate; and yet the
barrack in the midst of it went sore against my fancy.

Country folk went by from the fields as I sat there on the side of the
ditch, but I lacked the spirit to give them a good-e'en. At last the sun
went down, and then, right up against the yellow sky, I saw a scroll of
smoke go mounting, not much thicker, as it seemed to me, than the smoke
of a candle; but still there it was, and meant a fire, and warmth, and
cookery, and some living inhabitant that must have lit it; and this
comforted my heart.

So I set forward by a little faint track in the grass that led in my
direction. It was very faint indeed to be the only way to a place
of habitation; yet I saw no other. Presently it brought me to stone
uprights, with an unroofed lodge beside them, and coats of arms upon
the top. A main entrance it was plainly meant to be, but never finished;
instead of gates of wrought iron, a pair of hurdles were tied across
with a straw rope; and as there were no park walls, nor any sign of
avenue, the track that I was following passed on the right hand of the
pillars, and went wandering on toward the house.

The nearer I got to that, the drearier it appeared. It seemed like the
one wing of a house that had never been finished. What should have been
the inner end stood open on the upper floors, and showed against the sky
with steps and stairs of uncompleted masonry. Many of the windows were
unglazed, and bats flew in and out like doves out of a dove-cote.

The night had begun to fall as I got close; and in three of the lower
windows, which were very high up and narrow, and well barred, the
changing light of a little fire began to glimmer. Was this the palace
I had been coming to? Was it within these walls that I was to seek
new friends and begin great fortunes? Why, in my father's house on
Essen-Waterside, the fire and the bright lights would show a mile away,
and the door open to a beggar's knock!

I came forward cautiously, and giving ear as I came, heard some one
rattling with dishes, and a little dry, eager cough that came in fits;
but there was no sound of speech, and not a dog barked.

The door, as well as I could see it in the dim light, was a great piece
of wood all studded with nails; and I lifted my hand with a faint heart
under my jacket, and knocked once. Then I stood and waited. The house
had fallen into a dead silence; a whole minute passed away, and nothing
stirred but the bats overhead. I knocked again, and hearkened again.
By this time my ears had grown so accustomed to the quiet, that I
could hear the ticking of the clock inside as it slowly counted out the
seconds; but whoever was in that house kept deadly still, and must have
held his breath.

I was in two minds whether to run away; but anger got the upper hand,
and I began instead to rain kicks and buffets on the door, and to shout
out aloud for Mr. Balfour. I was in full career, when I heard the cough
right overhead, and jumping back and looking up, beheld a man's head
in a tall nightcap, and the bell mouth of a blunderbuss, at one of the
first-storey windows.

"It's loaded," said a voice.

"I have come here with a letter," I said, "to Mr. Ebenezer Balfour of
Shaws. Is he here?"

"From whom is it?" asked the man with the blunderbuss.

"That is neither here nor there," said I, for I was growing very wroth.

"Well," was the reply, "ye can put it down upon the doorstep, and be off
with ye."

"I will do no such thing," I cried. "I will deliver it into Mr.
Balfour's hands, as it was meant I should. It is a letter of
introduction."

"A what?" cried the voice, sharply.

I repeated what I had said.

"Who are ye, yourself?" was the next question, after a considerable
pause.

"I am not ashamed of my name," said I. "They call me David Balfour."

At that, I made sure the man started, for I heard the blunderbuss rattle
on the window-sill; and it was after quite a long pause, and with a
curious change of voice, that the next question followed:

"Is your father dead?"

I was so much surprised at this, that I could find no voice to answer,
but stood staring.

"Ay," the man resumed, "he'll be dead, no doubt; and that'll be what
brings ye chapping to my door." Another pause, and then defiantly,
"Well, man," he said, "I'll let ye in;" and he disappeared from the
window.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: On his second day of walking, David reaches the neighborhood of the house of Shaws. When he asks passers-by for directions, he finds that they are wary of the place and of Ebenezer, and warn him against going there. Near sundown, David asks a woman for further directions. She points out a ruined house in the next valley. David's heart sinks, as he was expecting to find wealthy relatives. The woman bitterly curses the house of Shaws and its laird , Ebenezer. David trembles with shock, but approaches the house, which on closer inspection proves to be in a run-down condition, with one wing unfinished. David knocks at the door. After some time, a man appears at an upstairs window, pointing a blunderbuss at David. David tells the man that he has a letter for Ebenezer Balfour. The man tells him to put the letter on the step and leave, but David insists that he must deliver it into Ebenezer's hands. David reveals his name, and the man starts in surprise. The man speculates that David has come because his father is dead. David wonders how he knows this. The man reluctantly says he will let David in