The hood of it covered her hair, and the wide flaps were folded over her bosom.

She sniffed the chill wind, and held her head up to the rain, and all the while, in a clear childish voice, she was singing.
It was a song I had heard, one made by the great Montrose, who had suffered shameful death in Edinburgh thirty years before.

It was a man's song, full of pride and daring, and not for the lips of a young maid.

But that hooded girl in the wild weather sang it with a challenge and a fire that no cavalier could have bettered.
"My dear and only love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway Than purest monarchy." "For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thy heart, I'll never love thee more." So she sang, like youth daring fortune to give it aught but the best.
The thing thrilled me, so that I stood gaping.

Then she looked aside and saw me.
"Your business, man ?" she cried, with an imperious voice.
I took off my bonnet, and made an awkward bow.
"Madam, I am on my way to Edinburgh," I stammered, for I was mortally ill at ease with women.