It was now, for the first time, that M'Leod became aware that his comrade was to be of the number of his executioners. He saw him amongst the firing-party. Unknowing the fact, and never dreaming of the possibility of such an atrocity as that which M'Intyre's position involved, M'Leod calmly asked a serjeant who stood near him—"What does James do there?" The serjeant evaded a reply, or rather affected not to hear him. At this moment the chaplain of the regiment came up to the unfortunate man, to administer the comfort and consolation of religious aid to the doomed soldier. But, ere he could enter on his sacred duties, M'Leod, on whose mind some approximation to the horrid truth as regarded the part assigned his comrade had now flashed, put the same question to the chaplain as he had done to the serjeant.
"Mr Fraser," he said, "I guess the truth; but I would fain be assured of it. Why is my comrade, James M'Intyre, amongst the firing-party?"
The chaplain, as the serjeant had done, endeavoured to evade a reply, by directing the unhappy man to matters of spiritual concernment; but he would not be evaded, and again repeated the question. Thus pressed, the chaplain could no longer avoid the explanation he sought. He told him M'Intyre was one of the firing-party by order of the commanding officer.
"I guessed as much," said M'Leod, calmly. "It is a piece of dreadful cruelty; but may God forgive him, as I freely do!"
He then, without making any further remark, entered solemnly and composedly into the devotional exercises prescribed by his spiritual comforter. These concluded, and everything being ready for the last fatal act of the tragedy, the firing-party were ordered to advance nearer, when M'Intyre, stepping out from his place amongst them, advanced towards the colonel, and again implored him to release him from the dreadful duty imposed on him. The colonel's reply was as determined and peremptory as before.
"Do your duty, sir!" he said, waving his hand impatiently as a signal to M'Intyre to return to his place, and stepping a pace or two away from him as he spoke. "Do your duty, sir, or I'll compel you; I'll have you in the same situation with your friend."
M'Intyre obeyed the ruthless order without saying another word. He returned to his place. The prisoner's eyes were now bandaged. The firing-party had levelled their muskets, and were waiting the fatal sign. It was made. Colonel Maberly himself made it. The volley was discharged, and M'Leod fell; but he fell not alone. In the same instant, the commanding officer of the —th regiment was also stretched lifeless on the plain. The well-aimed musket of M'Intyre had sent its ball through the heart of the ruthless tyrant. On perpetrating the deed, the former threw his piece on the ground, exclaiming, "Roderick is avenged, and the mercy the tyrant showed to others has been meted out to himself!" and offered himself up, an unresisting prisoner, to whoever might choose to execute that duty.
It was some minutes—so sudden and unexpected had been the catastrophe—before any one made the slightest movement; all looking on in silent and fixed amazement, but we cannot add with much regret; till at length a serjeant stepped out of the ranks, and seized M'Intyre by the breast.
"Right, Serjeant Thompson, right," said the latter, calmly; "you are doing your duty. I know what awaits me, and I am prepared for it. I did not do what I have done without making up my mind to the consequences."
These were indeed inevitable. On the third day thereafter, the roll of the muffled drum announced that M'Intyre's hour was come; and he fell, but not unpitied, beneath the bullets of a party of his fellow-soldiers, on the identical spot where, three days before, his unfortunate comrade had met a similar doom.