“I saw John Smith lying dead in a moss hole, his skull cleft by a dragoon’s sword,” replied Donald with malicious coolness.
“What?” cried Morag, wringing her hands, “John Smith dead! But no! it is impossible!—and you are a lying loon, that would try to deceive me, by telling me what I well enough know you would wish to be true. God forgive you, Donald, for such cruel knavery!”
“Thanks to ye, Morag, for your civility,” replied Donald Murdoch calmly; “but if you wont believe me, believe that bit of ribbon—see, the very bit of blue ribbon you tied round John Smith’s neck, the night you last so slighted me at the dance in the barn. See, it is partly died red in his life’s blood.”
“It is the ribbon!” cried Morag, snatching it from his hand with excessive agitation, and kissing it over and over again, and then bursting into tears. “Alas! alas! it must be too true! What will become of poor Morag!—why did I not go with him! What is this world to poor desolate Morag now?—And yet—he may be but wounded after all. It must be so—he cannot be killed. Where did you leave him?—quick, tell me!—oh, tell me, Donald. Why do we tarry here? let us forward and seek him!—there may be life in him yet, and whilst there is life there is hope. Let me pass, Donald; I will fly to seek him!”
“I love you too well to let you pass on so foolish and dangerous an errand,” said Donald, endeavouring to detain her. “I tell you that John Smith is dead; but you know, Morag, you will always find a friend and a lover in me. So think no more——”
“I will pass, Donald,” cried Morag, interrupting him, and making a determined attempt to rush past him.
“That you shall not,” replied Donald, catching her in his arms.
“Help, help!” cried Morag, struggling with all her might, and with great vigour too, against his exertions to hold her.
At this moment the trampling of a horse was heard, and a mounted dragoon came cantering down into the hollow. His sabre gleamed in the air—and Donald Murdoch fell headlong down the bank into the little rill, his skull nearly cleft in two, and perfectly bereft of life.
“A plague on the lousy Scot!” said the trooper, scanning the corpse of his victim with a searching eye. “His life was not worth the taking, had it not been, that the more of the rascally race that are put out of this world, the better for the honest men that are to remain in it, and therefore it was in the way of my duty to cut him down. There is nought on his beggarly carcase to benefit any one but the crows.—And so the knave would have kissed thee against thy will, my bonny black-eyed wench. Well, ’tis no wonder thou shouldst have scorned that carotty-pated fellow; you showed your taste in so doing, my dear: and now you shall be rewarded by having a somewhat better sweetheart.—Come!” continued he, alighting from his charger, and approaching the agitated and panting girl—“Come, a kiss from the lips of beauty is the best reward for brave deeds; and no one deserves this reward better than I do, for brave deeds have I this day performed. Why do you not speak, my dear? Have you no Christian language to give me? Can it be possible that these pretty pouting lips have no language but that of the savages of this country?—Come, then, we must try the kissing language; I have always found that to be well understood in all parts of the world.”