His command was instantly executed; while Mary, in a fit of distraction, flew up to her father, cast her arms round his neck, and kissed him with the most heart-rending affliction.
“My father, my father, I am your murderess! I will die with you! Ye cruel-hearted men, will none of you save him from this bloody death?”
“My dear Mary, may God protect you, and send you a happier lot than mine,” was all that the unhappy parent could articulate. He was then torn from her with violence, and hurried out to the green before the house. Mary, on this separation, fell into a short swoon; on awakening from which she found herself in the chamber with no one except Graham. His face was flushed with anger, and he walked impatiently up and down. By a sudden impulse she ran to the window, and the first sight which caught her eye was her father kneeling down, and opposite to him the four troopers, seemingly waiting for the signal of Clobberton, who looked intently at his watch. At this terrifying spectacle, and in an agony of desperation, she threw herself on her knees before the soldier.
“Young man—young man, save my father’s life! Oh, try at least to save him. I will love you, and work for you, and be your slave for ever. Blessings on your kind heart, you will do it—yes, you will do it.” And she rose up and threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. A tear rolled from Graham’s manly eye, and his soul was moved with compassion for the lovely being who clung to him and implored him so feelingly. He turned an instant to the window.
“Let me go, my dear—the accursed miscreant is putting up his watch and has told them to present; there is not a second to lose.”
Without saying another word, he unslung his carbine, rushed to the open air—and shot Clobberton dead on the spot.
The troopers were confounded at this sudden action. They lowered the weapons which they had that instant raised to their shoulders, and stood for some time gazing confusedly at each other—then at Graham—then at the body of their captain. When they recovered their self-possession, they raised up the latter to see if any spark of life remained. He was perfectly dead. The following colloquy then ensued between them.
Russell.—Why, I thinks as how he be dead.
Smith.—Dead! ay, as dead as Julius Cæsar. I wonder what old Dalzell will say when he hears of his dear “lamb” being butchered thus?
Russell.—Now hang it, Smith, don’t speak ill of the captain. He was a worthy man—that is to say, after his own fashion; and no one ever sarved his country better in the way of ridding it of crop-eared preachers: he was worth a score of hangmen.