This one alone began to
climb again. Up, up it toiled, for two weary miles, to the
hilltop toll-bar of Fairmilehead, and there the sounds and smells
that made it different from other roads began.
Five miles out of the city the halt was called, and the soldiers
flung themselves on the slope. Many experiences of route-marching
had taught Bobby that there was an interval of rest before the
return, so, with his nose to the ground, he started up the brae on
a pilgrimage to old shrines, just as in his puppyhood days, at Auld
Jock's heels, there was much shouting of men, barking of collies,
and bleating of sheep all the way up. Once he had to leave the road
until a driven flock had passed. Behind the sheep walked an old
laborer in hodden-gray, woolen bonnet, and shepherd's two-fold
plaid, with a lamb in the pouch of it. Bobby trembled at the
apparition, sniffed at the hob-nailed boots, and then, with drooped
head and tail, trotted on up the slope.
Men and dogs were all out on the billowy pastures, and the
farm-house of Cauldbrae lay on the level terrace, seemingly
deserted and steeped in memories. A few moments before, a tall
lassie had come out to listen to the military music. A couple of
hundred feet below, the coats of the soldiers looked to her like
poppies scattered on the heather. At the top of the brae the wind
was blowing a cold gale, so the maidie went up again, and around to
a bit of tangled garden on the sheltered side of the house.
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