"I ne'er say aucht but truth," replied Gair; "but ye sall get nae information frae me."
"Then take thy last look of yonder rising sun, my brave fellow," said Howard, with deep commiseration; "for in one minute more thou'lt be lying at the bottom of thy native sea."
"Oh, my sakeless wife and bairn!" cried the poor fisherman: "but in life and death, I commit you to the care of God!"
These words struck a chill on all who heard them, and the brave English gentlemen and mariners of Bull grew pale as they looked on each other.
Twice Sir Stephen repeated the question, and on receiving, for the last time, the same reply, he cried, furiously,—
"Thy blood be on thine own head, fellow!—fire the gun!"
The white smoke gushed from the gunport through the black rigging; the sharp report pealed over the morning sea, and ere it died away the rope had whistled through the block, as the sailors cast it from them like an instrument of murder, and poor Jamie Gair had vanished from the yard-arm of the Unicorn.
"Oh, Sir Stephen Bull," cried Howard, as he rushed to the vessel's side; "what is this thou hast done?"
"Drowned a pitiful Scot, whose obstinacy may mar our morning's work," was the dogged reply, as a few bubbles that rose to the surface, were all that remained to show where the fisherman had sunk. Sir Stephen walked aft hastily, but was evidently dissatisfied with himself, for he returned, and said,—
"Why this regret, Edmund Howard; was not the man only a Scot?"