"Nay, rather, how goes the day?" said Dundee, with an eager look.
"Well for the king," answered Wat.
"Then," replied John Graham, "if it be well with him it is the less the matter for me."
With that he laid his head back on Wat's breast contentedly. He seemed to wander somewhat in his thoughts, speaking fast and disorderly.
"Maybe I was in the wrong—in the wrong. Yet I did it for the king's good. But I was sore vexed for the wife and bairns. And yet the carrier suffered it very unconcernedly, and said he was glad to die—which I can well believe. Maybe he, too, had done well for his king."
His mind dwelt much upon far-off, unhappy things. Anon he seemed to see some terrible tragedy, for he put his hand before his face as if to shut out a painful sight.
"Enough of that, Westerha'," he said, in a grieved tone, "this serves no good end."
Then at the last there came a smile breaking over his face, and he lifted his hand lightly and gently like one who dandles something tender and easily broken.
"'Tis a fine bairn, Jean," he said, pleasantly, "ye may well be proud o' the babe. I wish I could bide wi' you. They might have left me alone this ae nicht. But I must mount and ride. Fare ye weel, Jean, my lass—braw lass and bonny wife ye ever were to me. I must e'en bit and saddle, for I hae a far gate and a gloomy road to travel this night!"
So with no more than this farewell to his wife and young bairn, the hope of the Stuarts, the scourge of the Covenant, the glory of the Grahams, lay dead on the clean-reaped field of victory.