Butler, with an ineffectual effort to recover himself, turned to Drummond, making a sign to him to tell the object of their melancholy errand, and then flung himself into a chair.
"John Ramsay is dead," said the woodman, in a mournful tone. "Your son, mistress Ramsay, was shot in a fray with the bloody, villanous Tories. The heartiest curses upon them!"
"Killed, dear madam," said Butler, scarce able to articulate, "killed in my defence. Would to God the blow had fallen upon my own head!"
"Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed the matron, as a flood of tears rolled down her cheeks, and she endeavored to wipe them away with her apron. "It isn't true. It can't be true. My poor, dear, brave boy!"
At the same instant Mary Musgrove fell insensible into the arms of her father, where it was some moments before she gave signs of animation. At length, being laid upon the bed, a deep groan escaped her, which was followed by the most piteous wailing.
The scene wrought upon the younger members of the family, who, as well as the domestics, were heard pouring forth deep and loud lamentations, accompanied with reiterated announcements of the death of the soldier.
When this first burst of the general grief was over, David Ramsay arose from his seat and walked across the room to a window, where he stood endeavoring to compose and master his feelings. At length, facing Butler, he said in a low and tranquil tone,
"John Ramsay, my son, killed, killed in a skirmish? God is my witness, I expected it! It was his failing to follow his enemy with too hot a hand; and I am to blame, perhaps, that I never checked him in that temper. But he died like a man and a soldier, Major Butler," he added, firmly.
"He died in my arms," replied Butler, "as bravely as ever soldier closed his life, his last thoughts were fixed upon his parents, and—"
"Dead!" interrupted Ramsay, as if communing with himself, and regardless of Butler's words—"Dead! He fell doing his duty to his country, that's a consolation. A man cannot die better. If it please God, I hope my end may be like his. Andrew, my boy, come here. You are now my oldest living son," he said, taking the lad's hand and looking him full in the face, as he spoke with a bitter compression of his lips; "I am willing, much as I love you, that the country should have you."