Seated one night by the carrier’s desolated hearth, where several friends had assembled to mourn with the widow, Quentin was about to commence family worship, when he was interrupted by the sudden entrance of Ramblin’ Peter. The expression of his face told eloquently that he brought bad news. “The Wilsons,” he said, “are condemned to be drowned with old Mrs McLachlan.”
“No’ baith o’ the lasses,” he added, correcting himself, “for the faither managed to git ane o’ them off by a bribe o’ a hundred pounds—an’ that’s every bodle that he owns.”
“Which is to be drooned?” asked Quentin in a low voice.
“Marget—the auldest.”
A deep groan burst from the shepherd as the Bible fell from his hands.
“Come!” he said to Peter, and passed quickly out of the house, without a word to those whom he left behind.
Arrived in Wigtown, the wretched man went about, wildly seeking to move the feelings of men whose hearts were like the nether millstone.
“Oh, if I only had siller!” he exclaimed to the Wilsons’ father, clasping his hands in agony. “Hae ye nae mair?”
“No’ anither plack,” said the old man in deepest dejection. “They took all I had for Aggie.”
“Ye are strang, Quentin,” suggested Peter, who now understood the reason of his friend’s wild despair. “Could ye no’ waylay somebody an’ rob them? Surely it wouldna be coonted wrang in the circumstances.”