Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XVI Part 6

says Burns,

"Poor Hughoc like a statue stands."

It would be impossible, by any similitude or quotation, to give an accurate picture of Archy Campbell, when he saw Doddy, free as air, taking the bent and crooning defiance, and his own brother lying a corpse at his feet, and all by his own hands. It is needless to say that, in all bosoms, there are sympathies and calls of affection. The trade upon which Donald and Archy were employed was a bad one; but they had great brotherly affection; and it was indeed, as has been repeated to us, an affecting sight to behold Archy's grief on this occasion. He leaned over, he embraced, he kissed his brother, he raised up the dead body to the wind, he braided back the hair, he wiped the foam from the lips, he burst at last into tears, and fell down, apparently lifeless, on his brother's corpse. So deeply has G.o.d imprinted himself on our natures, nothing--not even Lauderdale cruelty--could entirely erase his image.

Poor Jessy escaped, in the meantime, to her mother, and was married in the course of a month. The present member of Parliament for the Ayr Burghs is her lineal descendant.

VII.--BONNY MARY GIBSON.

The summer of 168- was wet and ungenial; the little grain which Scotland at that time produced had never ripened, and men and women would shear all day, and carry home the greater part of the thin and scanty upland crop on their backs. The winter was issued in by strange and marvellous reports--men fighting in the air--showers of Highland bonnets--and eclipses of no ordinary occurrence. In fact, the northern lights, which for centuries had disappeared, had again returned, and were viewed by a superst.i.tious people with much dread and amazement. The end of the world was antic.i.p.ated and confidently predicted, and the soul of man sank within him under the pressure of an awakened conscience. Besides, political events were sufficiently distressing: the battle of Bothwell Brig had been fought and lost by the friends of Presbytery and religious freedom; and strong parties, under the command of demons, denominated Grierson, Johnstone, Douglas, and Clavers, scoured the west country, and Dumfries-shire in particular, making sad and fearful havoc amongst G.o.d's covenanted flock. It appeared to many, and to Walter Gibson of Auchincairn in particular, that, what betwixt the pestilence induced by want and bad provisions, and the devastations brought on the earth by the hand of man, life was not only precarious, but a burden. Men rose, went about their wonted employment, and retired again to rest, without a smile, and often without exchanging a word. Young men and young women were seen constantly perusing the Bible, and taking farewell of each other, with the feeling that they were never to meet again. The cattle were driven into the farmer's stores from the outfields, and there bled every three weeks. The blood thus obtained was mixed and boiled with green kail from the yard, and this, with a mere sprinkling of meal, was all the subsistence which could be afforded to master and servant, to guest and beggar. A capacious pot, filled with this supply, stood from morn to night in the farmer's kitchen, with a large horn spoon stuck into the centre of it; and every one who entered helped himself to a heaped spoonful, and retired, making way for a successor. If the summer had been ungenial, the winter was unusually severe. Snow and frost had set in long before Christmas, with awful severity. The sheep were starving and dying by scores on the hills; and the farmer, with his servant band, were employed all day in digging out the half and wholly dead from the snow wreaths. The strength of man failed him; and the very dogs deserted their masters, and lived wild on the hills, feeding on the dead and dying. It was indeed an awful time, and a judgment-like season, unparalleled (unless perhaps by the year '40 of the last century) in the annals of Scotland. Five hundred human beings are said to have perished of hunger merely within the limited district of Dumfries-shire, besides many hundreds whom the plague (for such it was deemed and called) cut off.

It was on a cold frosty night, with intervals of drifting and falling snow, that a strange apparition made its way into the kitchen of Auchincairn, in the hill district of the Parish of Closeburn. It was naked, emaciated, and extremely feeble, and rolled itself into the langsettle with extreme difficulty. "In the name of G.o.d," said Mrs Gibson, "who and what art thou?" But the apparition only stretched out its hand, and pointing to its mouth, signified that it was dumb. Food, such as has been described, was immediately administered; and a gla.s.s of French brandy seemed to revive the skeleton greatly. Walter Gibson, and his wife Janet Harkness, were not the persons to deny shelter on such a night and to such an object. Warm blankets and a great peat-fire were resorted to; and the next morning saw the stranger much recovered. But he was manifestly deaf and dumb, and could only converse by signs;--his features, now that they could be clearly marked, were regular, and a superior air marked his movements. He was apparently young; but he refused to make known, by means of writing, his previous history. There he was, and there he seemed disposed to remain; and it was not possible to eject by force a being at once so dependent and so interesting. As he gained strength, he would walk out with an old musket, which hung suspended from the roofing of the kitchen, and return with valuable and acceptable provisions--hares, miresnipes, woodc.o.c.ks, partridges, and even crows, were welcome visiters in the kitchen of Auchincairn. Without the aid of a dog, and with ammunition which n.o.body knew how he procured, he contrived to contribute largely to the alleviation of the winter's sufferings. The family, consisting of one daughter about eighteen years of age, a son about twenty-two, and four or five male and female servants, were deeply impressed with the notion that he possessed some unearthly powers, and was actually sent by Heaven for the purpose of preserving them alive during the asperities and deprivations of the famine and the storm. The winter gradually and slowly pa.s.sed away, and it was succeeded by a spring, and a summer, and a harvest of unusual beauty and productiveness. The stranger was a wanderer in the fields, and in the linns, and in the dark places of the mountains; and it was observed that he had read all the little library of Auchincairn--consisting of Knox's History, "The Holy War," "The Pilgrim's Progress," and a volume of sermons--again and again. He had clearly been well educated, and, as his frame resumed a healthy aspect, he looked every inch a gentleman. Mary Gibson was a kind-hearted, bonny la.s.sie. There were no pretensions to ladyhood about her; but her sweet face beamed with benevolence, and her warm heart beat with goodness and affection. She had all along been most kind and attentive to the poor dumb gentleman (as she called him), for it early struck her that the stranger had been born such. But, all at once, the stranger disappeared; and, though search was made in all his haunts, not a trace of him could be found. It was feared that, in some of his reveries, he had stumbled over the Whiteside Linn; but his body was not to be found. Newspapers, in these days, there were none, at least in Dumfries-shire; and in a month or two the family of Auchincairn seemed to have made up their mind to regard their mysterious visiter in the light of a benevolent messenger of G.o.d--in short, of an angel. Into this opinion, however, Mary, it was observed, did not fully enter. But she _said_ little, and _sung_ much, and seemed but little affected by the stranger's departure.

It was in the month of November of this destructive season, that, one morning, long ere daylight, the close of Auchincairn was filled with dragoons. There were fearful oaths, and plunging of swords into bed-covers and wool-sacks, in quest of some one after whom they were searching. At length Walter Gibson and his son were roused from their beds, and placed, half-naked, in the presence of Grierson of Lag, to be interrogated respecting a stranger whom they had sheltered for months past, and whom Grierson described as an enemy to the king and his government. Of this, both son and father declared, and truly, their ignorance; but they were disbelieved, and immediately marched off, under a guard, to Lag Castle, to Dumfries, and ultimately to Edinburgh, there to await a mock trial, for harbouring a traitor. In vain was all remonstrance on the part of the wife and daughter. Resistance was impossible, and tears were regarded as a subject of merriment.

"Ay, pipe away there," said the infamous Lag, "and scream and howl your bellyfuls; but it will be long ere such music will reach the ear or soften the heart of my Lord Lauderdale. There is a maiden in Edinburgh, my gentle wood-dove," familiarly grasping Mary Gibson's chin, and squeezing it even to agony--"there is a maiden in Edinburgh more loving, by far, than thou canst be; and to this lady of the sharp tongue and heavy hand shall thy dainty brother soon be wedded. As to the old c.o.c.k, a new pair of boots and a touch of the thumbikins will probably awaken his recollections and clear his judgment. But march, my lads!--we are wasting time." And the cavalcade rode off, having eaten and drunk all eatables and drinkables in the dwelling.

Mrs Gibson was a person of mild and submissive manners; but there was a strength in her character, which rose with the occasion. She immediately dried up her tears, spoke kindly, and in words of comforting, to her daughter; and, taking her plaid about her shoulders, retired to the barn, where she had long been in the habit of offering up her supplication and thanksgiving to the G.o.d of her fathers. When she came forth, after some hours of private communion with herself, she seemed cheered and resolved, and addressed herself to the arrangement of family matters as if nothing particular had happened. In a few days information was conveyed to her that her husband and son had been marched off to Edinburgh, there to await their trial, for the state offence of harbouring a rebel, but really to gratify the resentment of the parish curate, who had taken mortal offence at their nonconformity. Helen Gibson had already resolved in what manner she was to act; and, leaving her daughter to superintend domestic affairs, she set out, like her successor, Jeanie Deans, on foot and unprotected, to Edinburgh, there to visit her husband and son in their confinement, and intercede, should opportunity occur, with the superior and ruling powers, for their life and freedom. As she wandered up the wild path which conducts to Leadhills, it began to snow, and it was with infinite difficulty that she reached the highest town in Scotland, then an insignificant village.

Fever was the consequence of this exertion; but, after a few days' rest, she recovered, and, though still feeble, pursued her way. At Biggar, news reached her that four individuals had, a few days before, been executed at the Gallowlee; and she retired to rest with an alarmed and a dispirited mind. The snow having thawed, she pursued her way under the Pentlands next day, and had advanced as far as Brighouse, at the foot of these hills, when, overcome by fatigue, she was compelled to seek for shelter under the excavation of a rock, upon the banks of a mountain torrent, which works its way through rock and over precipice at this place. Being engaged in prayer, she did not observe, for some time, a figure which stood behind her; but what was her surprise, when, on looking around, she recognised at once the well-known countenance of the poor dumb lad! He was now no longer dumb, but immediately informed her that he lived in the neighbourhood; and entreated his former mistress to accompany him home to his habitation. Surprise and astonishment had their play in her bosom--but comfort and something like confidence succeeded; for Mrs Gibson could not help seeing the finger of her G.o.d in this matter.

She was conveyed by her guide, now a well-dressed and well-spoken gentleman, to his abode at Pentland Tower--a strongly-built edifice, well fitted for defence, and indicating the antiquity of the family by which it had been possessed. The place was to her a palace, and she looked with amazement on the looking-gla.s.ses and pictures which it contained; but, what was of more moment and interest than all other considerations, she learned that King James had fled, and King William had given "liberty to the captive, and the opening of the prison-doors to those who were bound." Nay more, her mysterious landlord informed her, that, having himself just obtained his pardon, he had only returned from skulking about, from place to place, to his paternal inheritance, a few days ago, and that, having heard of her family's misfortunes, occasioned in some measure by himself, he had immediately repaired to Edinburgh, had seen her husband and son, who were actually at that moment in another chamber of the same house, on their return home to Auchincairn. His rencounter with her had undoubtedly been providential, as he had not the slightest idea that she could possibly be in his neighbourhood.

The interview which followed, with all its interesting and fond recognisances, I shall leave to the reader's imagination--only noticing the kindness of the young Laird of Pentland Tower, in consequence of which the father and son were compelled to delay their return to Auchincairn for a few days, in the course of which a chaise one evening drove up to the door, from which alighted, dressed in her newest attire, and in all the pride of beauty and of a gentle nature, Mary Gibson.

The sequel can be easily antic.i.p.ated. To all but Mary the poor persecuted stranger had been dumb; but to her he had formerly confided the secret of his birth, and his subsequent history; and in places "whar warl saw na," they had again and again sworn truth and fealty to each other. But, having learned that a search was going on in his neighbourhood, the young "Laird of Pentland Tower" had a.s.sumed a new disguise, and betaken himself to another locality, from which he was drawn by the blessed change of government already alluded to, as well as by his wish to dignify and adorn, with the name and the honour of wife, "a bonny, virtuous, kind-hearted la.s.sie," who long continued to share and add to his happiness, and to secure the inheritance of Pentland Tower, with its domains, to the name of "Lindsay."

Among the claimants who, a few years ago, contended for the honours of the lordship of Lindsay, I observed a lineal descendant of BONNY MARY GIBSON.

VIII.--THE ESKDALEMUIR STORY.

In the rural retreats of Eskdalemuir, the following narrative still exists in tradition:--

A soldier belonging to Johnstone of Westerhall's company had a fall from his horse, in consequence of which he was disabled for a time from service. He was committed to the charge of a poor but honest family in Eskdalemuir, near Yettbyres, where he was carefully nursed and well attended to. This family consisted of a mother, a daughter, and two sons, who were shepherds on the property of Yettbyres. The daughter's name was Jean Wilson; and the soldier's heart was lost to Jean, ere he was aware. In truth, Jean was a beauteous rosebud, a flower of the wilderness, in her seventeenth year, and most kind and attentive to their guest. To own more truth, Jean was likewise in love with the brave and manly figure and bearing of her patient; but she never told him so, being greatly averse to his profession and his politics--for he was one of the persecutors of G.o.d's people, and Jean's father had been shot on Dumfries Sands for his adherence to the Covenant. At last, however, and after many fruitless attempts on Jean's part to convert the soldier, and convince him of the evil of his profession, he was again summoned to his post--and the shieling of Yettbyres a.s.sumed its wonted peaceful aspect.

In the midst of the Eskdale mountains a scene was exhibited of no ordinary interest. A poor captive stood bound and blinded; a party of five soldiers, under the command of a serjeant, was ordered out to shoot him. The poor man had asked for five minutes of indulgence, which was granted; during which time he had sung some verses of a psalm, and prayed. It was night and full moon. It was in the midst of a mountain glen, and by the side of a mountain stream; all was still, and peaceful, and lonely around--but the pa.s.sions of men were awake. There was a voice--it was the voice of Johnstone of Westerhall--which commanded the men to do their duty, and to blow out the brains of the poor kneeling captive.

"If I do, may I be hanged!" exclaimed the serjeant, standing out before his men, and looking defiance on his captain.

"What!" exclaimed Johnstone, "do you dare to disobey my orders?

Soldiers, seize Serjeant Watson, and bind him!"

In the meantime, partly through the connivance of the men, and partly from the confusion which ensued, the captive had made his escape. To him the localities of this glen were all familiar; and, by ensconcing himself beneath and beyond a sheet of foaming water which was projected from an ap.r.o.n-fall in the linn, John Wilson effected his escape for the time.

The serjeant was immediately carried to head-quarters at Lockerby, and tried by a court-martial for disobedience of orders. The court consisted of Grierson of Lag, Winram of Wigton, Douglas of Drumlanrig, and Bruce of Bunyean. The fact of disobedience was not denied; but the soldier pled the obligations which he had been under to the Wilson family during his distress; and his consequent unwillingness to become the instrument of John Wilson's murder. Even Clavers was somewhat softened by the statement, and was half-inclined to sustain the reason, when Johnstone struck in, and urged strongly the necessity of preserving subordination at all times in the army--and particularly in these times, when instances of disobedience to orders were anything but uncommon. Douglas of Drumlanrig seemed likewise to be on the point of yielding to the better feelings of humanity, when Grierson, Winram, and Bruce decided, by a majority, that Serjeant Watson should be carried back to the ground where the act had been committed, and shot dead on the spot.

The poor serjeant's eyes were tied up, and the muskets of four soldiers levelled at his head, when a scream was heard, and a lovely girl, in the most frantic manner, threw herself into the arms of the victim.

"You shall not murder him!" she exclaimed; "or, if ye do, ye shall murder us both. What!--did he not save the life of my poor brother, and shall I scruple to lay down my life for him? Oh no, no! Level your murderous weapons, and bury us both, when your wish is done, in one grave! Oh, you never knew what woman's love was till now!"

He strained her to his bosom in reply.

"Keep off! keep off!" exclaimed a man's voice from behind. "Save, for Heaven and a Saviour's sake, oh, save innocent life! I am the victim you are in quest of--bind me, blindfold me, shoot me dead--but spare, oh, spare, in mercy and in justice, youth and innocence, the humane heart and the warm young bosom! Is not she my sister, ye men of blood?--and have none of ye a sister? Is not he my saviour, ye messengers of evil?--and have none of ye grat.i.tude for deeds of mercy done? Surely, surely" (addressing himself to Westerhall), "ye will not, ye cannot, p.r.o.nounce that fearful word which must prove fatal to three at once; for, as G.o.d is my hope, this day, and on this spot, will I die, if not to avert, at least to share, the fate of these two!"

It was remarked that a tear stood in the eye of Clavers, who turned his horse's head about, and galloped off the field. The men looked to Westerhall for orders; but he had turned his head aside, to look after his superior officer. It was evidently a fearful moment of suspense. The muskets shook in the men's hands; and, without saying one word, Johnstone turned his horse's head around, and rode over the hill after his superior.

The case was tried at Dumfries, and, hardened as bosoms were in these awful times, many an eye, unwont to weep, was filled with tears, as the circ.u.mstances of this fearful case unfolded themselves. Jean Wilson never looked so lovely as when, with a boldness altogether foreign to her general conduct, she confessed and exulted in her crime. The serjeant admitted the justice of his sentence, but pled his inability to avoid the guilt. John Wilson admitted his want of conformity, and urged his father's murder as sufficient ground for his rooted hatred of the murderers. The jury were not divided. They p.r.o.nounced a sentence of acquittal, and the court rang with shouts of applause. From that day and hour Johnstone of Westerhall resigned his commission, and, betaking himself to private life, is said to have exhibited marks of genuine repentance.

The woods around Closeburn Castle are indeed most beautiful; and that winding glen which leads to Gilchristland is romantic in no ordinary degree. That is the land of the Watsons, the lineal descendants of this poor serjeant, who, immediately after the trial, married sweet Jeanie Wilson, and settled ultimately in the farm of Gilchristland, where they and theirs, many sons and daughters, have lived in respectability and independence ever since. That three-storey house which overlooks the valley of the Nith, and is visible from Drumlanrig to the Stepends of Closeburn, is tenanted by Alexander Watson, one of the wealthiest farmers and cattle-dealers in the south of Scotland.

IX.--THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY.

Upon the banks or sh.o.r.e of the Frith of Cree, at that point where it would be difficult to say whether the sea or the river prevailed, stood, in old times, a mud cottage, surrounded by a clump of trees. It was quite a nest of a thing; and beautifully did the blue smoke ascend, strongly relieved and brought out by the dark woodland. The ships in pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing, sailed close to the door of this lonely dwelling, and would often, in fine weather, exchange salutations with its inmates.

These inmates were Janet Smith and Nanny Nivison--the one old, and almost bedrid; the other young, and beautiful, and kind-hearted. Nanny, who was an orphan, lived with her grandmother; and, whilst she discharged the duties of a nurse, she was extremely efficient in earning their mutual subsistence. In these days, spinning-jennies were not; and many a fireside was enlivened by the whirr of the "big" or the birr of the "wee" wheel. The check-reel, with its cheerful click or challenge at every sixtieth revolution, was there; and the kitchen rafters were ornamented by suspended hanks of sale yarn. There sat, by a good, warm peat-fire, the aged and sleepy cat, winking contentment in both eyes, and prognosticating rain, by carefully washing her face with her fore-paw. There, too, in close alliance and perfect peacefulness, lay a blind cur-dog, who had known other days, and had followed to the field, if not some warlike lord, at least one of the lords of the creation, in the shape of John Nivison, who had been shot on the south range of the Galloway Hills for his adherence to the Covenant. His son Thomas, the brother of Nanny, had been long outlawed, and was supposed, even by his sister--his only sister--to have effected his escape to America. It was a beautiful and peaceful evening in the months of harvest--all was cheerfulness around. The mirthful band was employed, at no great distance, in cutting down and collecting into sheaves and stooks the abundant crop; and the husbandman, with his coat deposited in the hedge at the end of the field, was as busily employed as any of his band. The voice of man and woman, lad and la.s.s, master and servant, was mixed in one continuous flow of rustic wit and rural jest. The surface of the Frith was smooth as gla.s.s, and the Galloway Hills looked down from heaven, and up from beneath, with brows of serenity and friendship. One or two vessels were tiding it up in the midst of the stream, with a motion scarcely perceptible. They had all sails set, and looked as if suspended in a gla.s.sy network, half-way betwixt heaven and earth. The sun shone westward, near to his setting, and the white and softly-rolled clouds only served to make the blue of a clear sky still more deep and lovely. The la.s.sie wi' the lint-white locks spread over an eye of bonny blue--

"The little halcyon's azure plume Was never half so blue!"--

might well a.s.similate to this sunny sky. Nature seemed to say to man, from above and from beneath--from hill and from dale--from land and from sea--from a thousand portals of beauty and blessedness--"Thou stranger on earth, enjoy the happiness which thy G.o.d prepares for thee. For thee, he hath hung the heavens in a drapery of light and love--for thee, he hath clothed the earth in fragrance and plenty--for thee, he hath spread out the waters of the great sea, and made them carriers of thy wealth and thy will from land to land, and from the broad sea to the city and the hamlet on the narrow frith." Thus spake, or seemed to speak, G.o.d to man, in the beautiful manifestations of his love. But what said "man to man?" Alas! true it is, and of verity, that

"Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn."

The whole of the south of Scotland was, at this peaceful hour, overrun with locusts and caterpillars--with all that can hurt and destroy--that can mar, mangle, and torture--with rage, persecution, and violence--profanity, bloodshed, and death. Oh, what a contrast!--Look, only look, on this picture and on that:--Here all peace; there, Douglas, Grierson, Johnstone, Clavers: here, all mercy and love; there, the red dragoons, stained and besmeared with blood and with brains: here, the comforts, and fellowship, and affection of home and of kindred; there, the mountain solitude, the trembling refugee, the damp cave, and the bed of stone! Truly, G.o.d hath made man in innocence, but he hath found out many inventions, and, amongst others, the instruments of torture and of death--the b.l.o.o.d.y maiden--the accursed boots--and the thumbikin and torch, to twist and burn with anguish the writhing soul. And all this, for what? To _convert_ the nation into a land of hypocrites--to stifle the dictates of conscience--to extinguish liberty, and establish despotism. But _tempora mutantur_: thank G.o.d! it is otherwise now with the people of Scotland--and the sword of oppressive violence has been sheathed for ever.

It was night, it was twelve o'clock, and all was silence, save that, at intervals, the grating crake of the landrail or corncraik was heard, like some importunate creditor craving payment, from breath to breath, of his due. An image stood in the pa.s.sage of the clay-built dwelling--it was not visible, but there was silence and a voice--it was a well-known voice. "Oh, my G.o.d, it is my brother!" Thus exclaimed Nancy Nivison, whilst she threw herself, naked as she was, into the arms of her long-lost and sore-lamented brother. The old woman was gradually aroused to a conception of what was going forward; but her spirit was troubled within her, and she groaned, whilst she articulated, "Beware, I pray ye!--beware what ye're doing!--Douglas is as near as Wigton with his band o' murderers. They have shot the father, and they will not scruple to murder, by law or without law, the son. Oh sirs, I'm unco distressed to think o' the danger which this unexpected visit must occasion!" Thomas Nivison had, indeed, sailed for America; but he had been shipwrecked on the Isle of Arran, not far from the coast of Ireland, and had lived for months with the fishermen, by a.s.sisting them in their labour. But hame is hame--

"Oh, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be!

Oh, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!"

So breathes, in perfect nature and simplicity, the old song; and so felt, amidst the bare rocks and stormy inlets of Arran, poor Thomas Nivison. And for the sake of this humble home, this poor outlaw, upon whose head a price had been set (as he had wounded, almost to death, one of his father's murderers), had run, and was now running, incalculable risks. Long ere daylight Thomas Nivison had betaken himself to a hiding-place in the linns of Cree; but his visit had not escaped observation. A smuggler of brandy and tea from the Isle of Man, being engaged in what he denominated the free-trade, chanced to mark his approach, and fled immediately with the news to Douglas at Wigton. The troop surrounded the house by break of day; but the bird was flown.

What a scene was exhibited, in a few days, on this peaceful sh.o.r.e! Two women, the one old, and scarcely able to support her head, and the other young, beautiful, but stripped down to the waist, and tied to a stake within flood-mark on the Frith of Cree; a guard of dragoons surrounding the spot, and an officer of rank riding, ever and anon, to the saddlegirths into the swelling flood, and questioning the poor sufferers very hard. But it was all in vain; Thomas Nivison was neither betrayed by sister nor by grandmother. In fact, they knew not, though they might have their suspicions, of his retreat. Can it be believed in the present times--and yet this is a fact attested by history as well as by tradition--that these two helpless and guiltless beings were permitted to perish, to be suffocated by inches and gulps amidst the tide? The poor old woman died first. Her stake was mercifully sunk farther into the stream. She died, however, speaking encouragement to her grandchild.

"It will soon be over, Nanny--it will not last long--it will not be ill to bear--and there we shall be free" (looking up to heaven)--"_there_, there is nothing to hurt or to destroy; and my father is there, Nanny; and my mother is there; and my son--oh, my poor murdered boy!--is there!

and you and I will be there, and he, too, will soon, soon follow; but his blood be on the guilty, Nanny, and not on us! We will not shed one drop of it for all that man can give--for all that man can do--

'For anything that man can do I shall not be afraid.'"