"That stick, which you have just dropped, is covered with blood," said Mr. Craigie; "a foul murder has been committed, and we find you with the supposed instrument of that murder, near the very spot where there is ground to believe the act was perpetrated."
A fearful pang shot through Percival's frame, but conscious innocence made it brief, and with a calmness of demeanor which guilt never could have assumed, and gravely smiling, he turned to his uncle saying—
"You cannot believe that I am guilty?"
"No, no, John!" answered the individual appealed to. "God forbid that I should judge you wrongfully, but—"
"But," interrupted the magistrate, "not only does it appear that you have slain a man, but that, desirous of fixing your guilt upon another, you have written a letter, falsely accusing an innocent person of that crime."
"Letter!" repeated Percival, "Sir, I do not even know what you mean."
"Mr. Comyn," asked the magistrate, "this young man—the nephew of my lamented friend, your late wife—paid court, as I understand, to your daughter, and was by her rejected?"
"By me, sir—by me, Mr. Craigie," answered the clergyman; "the lassie never rejected him, but I did."
"And the murdered man," slowly pronounced the magistrate, "was the betrothed husband of Miss Comyn?"
Percival started violently, uttering an ejaculation of horror and wonder, for at last he saw the inferences which Mr. Craigie seemed willing to draw from circumstances that certainly looked suspicious.