My position had been one of extreme difficulty. I could not dig, and to beg—even from Sir Basil—I was ashamed; besides, I had a spirit that revolted at the idea of eating bread that was won either by falsehood or servility.
"'Tis done!" said I, thinking aloud, "in the plain red coat of a trooper, none will ever discover Basil Gauntlet—the disinherited heir of Nether wood!"
"So you are still resolved to be one of us?" said Charters, when we met early in the morning.
"Yes."
"'Tis well; life is a lottery—let us go and draw," he observed, figuratively.
"I would rather go and drink," added Kirkton, who, after our late potations, looked rather red about the eyes.
"Try a dram—and then hey for the road; but we must have our new comrade attested. Landlord, where is a justice of the peace to be found?"
"Plague on them—they're thick as blackberries on both sides o' the Border," growled the host.
"For one, there is Nathan Wylie, the writer at—" began the hostess.
"No—no—I go not before him!" said I, with a pang of sorrow in my heart, as I thought of Ruth, whose sweet image came upbraidingly to my memory.