And when I remembered James More, and the red head of Neil the son
of Duncan, I thought there was perhaps a fourth in the confederacy,
and what remained of Rob Roy's old desperate sept of caterans would
be banded against me with the others. One thing was requisite--
some strong friend or wise adviser. The country must be full of
such, both able and eager to support me, or Lovat and the Duke and
Prestongrange had not been nosing for expedients; and it made me
rage to think that I might brush against my champions in the street
and be no wiser.
And just then (like an answer) a gentleman brushed against me going
by, gave me a meaning look, and turned into a close. I knew him
with the tail of my eye--it was Stewart the Writer; and, blessing
my good fortune, turned in to follow him. As soon as I had entered
the close I saw him standing in the mouth of a stair, where he made
me a signal and immediately vanished. Seven storeys up, there he
was again in a house door, the which he looked behind us after we
had entered. The house was quite dismantled, with not a stick of
furniture; indeed, it was one of which Stewart had the letting in
his hands.
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