CHAPTER II.
OF A HIGH-HANDED LADY.
The storm died away in the night, and I awoke to a clear, rain-washed world and the chill of an autumn morn.

I was as stiff and sore as if I had been whipped, my clothes were sodden and heavy, and not till I had washed my face and hands in the burn and stretched my legs up the hill-side did I feel restored to something of my ordinary briskness.
The encampment looked weird indeed as seen in the cruel light of day.
The women were cooking oatmeal on iron girdles, but the fire burned smokily, and the cake I got was no better than dough.

They were a disjaskit lot, with tousled hair and pinched faces, in which shone hungry eyes.

Most were barefoot, and all but two--three were ancient beldames who should have been at home in the chimney corner.

I noticed one decent-looking young woman, who had the air of a farm servant; and two were well-fed country wives who had probably left a brood of children to mourn them.