“Nay,” said the sergeant; “bind them together, and drive them before us to the captain: I don’t know but he may wish to do justice to them with his own hand.”
“The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,” groaned Mr. Duncan.
Mary wrung her hands—“Oh, spare my father!” she cried.
“Wheesht, Mary!” said the old man; “as soon wad a camel pass through the eye o’ a needle, as ye wad find compassion in the hands o’ these men!”
“Bind the girl and the preacher together,” said the sergeant.
“Nay, by your leave, sergeant,” interrupted one of the troopers, “I wouldn’t be the man to lift a hand against a pretty girl like that, if you would give me a regiment for it.”
“Ay, ay, Macdonald,” replied the sergeant—“this comes of your serving under that canting fellow, Lieutenant Mowbray—he has no love for the service; and confound me if I don’t believe he is half a Roundhead in his heart. Tie the hands of the girl, I command you.”
“I will not!” returned Macdonald; “and hang me if any one else shall!” And, with his sword in his hand, he placed himself between Mary and his comrades.
“If you do not bind her hands, I shall cause others to bind yours,” said the sergeant.
“They may try that who dare!” returned the soldier, who was the most powerful man of the party; “but what I’ve said I’ll stand to.”