The camp had been snugly chosen, for, except by the gleam of a fire in the dark, it was invisible from any distance.

Muckle John was so filled with his vapourings that I could readily slip off down the burn and join the southern highway at the village of Linton.
I was on the verge of going when I saw that which pulled me up.

A rider was coming over the moor.

The horse leaped the burn lightly, and before I could gather my wits was in the midst of the camp, where Muckle John was vociferating to heaven.
My heart gave a great bound, for I saw it was the girl who had sung to me in the rain.

She rode a fine sorrel, with the easy seat of a skilled horsewoman.