It was the stranger who had accosted me in
Parlane's alley, and he was either drunk or in wild spirits, for he was
singing:--
"We're a' dry wi' the drinkin' o't,
We're a' dry wi' the drinkin' o't.
The minister kissed the fiddler's wife,
And he couldna preach for thinkin' o't."
The ribald chorus echoed from the close mouth.
Then I saw that he was followed by three others, bent, slinking
fellows, who slipped across the patches of moonlight, and eagerly
scanned the empty vennel. They could not see me, for I was in shadow,
and presently they too entered the close.
The thing looked ugly, and, while I had no love for the red-haired man,
I did not wish to see murder or robbery committed and stand idly by.
The match of the afternoon had given me a fine notion of my prowess,
though. Had I reflected, my pistol was in its case at home, and I had
no weapon but a hazel staff. Happily in youth the blood is quicker than
the brain, and without a thought I ran into the close and up the long
stairway.
The chorus was still being sung ahead of me, and then it suddenly
ceased. In dead silence and in pitchy darkness I struggled up the stone
steps, wondering what I should find at the next turning. The place was
black as night, the steps were uneven, and the stairs corkscrewed most
wonderfully.
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