“Do YOU stand, Allan Breack Cameron, and command your men to stand, or it will be the worse for us all.”
“Halt, men,” said the sergeant, but continuing himself to advance. “Hamish, think what you do, and give up your gun; you may spill blood, but you cannot escape punishment.”
“The scourge—the scourge—my son, beware the scourge!” whispered his mother.
“Take heed, Allan Breack,” said Hamish. “I would not hurt you willingly, but I will not be taken unless you can assure me against the Saxon lash.”
“Fool!” answered Cameron, “you know I cannot. Yet I will do all I can. I will say I met you on your return, and the punishment will be light; but give up your musket—Come on, men.”
Instantly he rushed forward, extending his arm as if to push aside the young man’s levelled firelock. Elspat exclaimed, “Now, spare not your father’s blood to defend your father’s hearth!” Hamish fired his piece, and Cameron dropped dead. All these things happened, it might be said, in the same moment of time. The soldiers rushed forward and seized Hamish, who, seeming petrified with what he had done, offered not the least resistance. Not so his mother, who, seeing the men about to put handcuffs on her son, threw herself on the soldiers with such fury, that it required two of them to hold her, while the rest secured the prisoner.
“Are you not an accursed creature,” said one of the men to Hamish, “to have slain your best friend, who was contriving, during the whole march, how he could find some way of getting you off without punishment for your desertion?”
“Do you hear THAT, mother?” said Hamish, turning himself as much towards her as his bonds would permit; but the mother heard nothing, and saw nothing. She had fainted on the floor of her hut. Without waiting for her recovery, the party almost immediately began their homeward march towards Dunbarton, leading along with them their prisoner. They thought it necessary, however, to stay for a little space at the village of Dalmally, from which they despatched a party of the inhabitants to bring away the body of their unfortunate leader, while they themselves repaired to a magistrate, to state what had happened, and require his instructions as to the farther course to be pursued. The crime being of a military character, they were instructed to march the prisoner to Dunbarton without delay.
The swoon of the mother of Hamish lasted for a length of time—the longer perhaps that her constitution, strong as it was, must have been much exhausted by her previous agitation of three days’ endurance. She was roused from her stupor at length by female voices, which cried the coronach, or lament for the dead, with clapping of hands and loud exclamations; while the melancholy note of a lament, appropriate to the clan Cameron, played on the bagpipe, was heard from time to time.
Elspat started up like one awakened from the dead, and without any accurate recollection of the scene which had passed before her eyes. There were females in the hut who were swathing the corpse in its bloody plaid before carrying it from the fatal spot. “Women,” she said, starting up and interrupting their chant at once and their labour—“Tell me, women, why sing you the dirge of MacDhonuil Dhu in the house of MacTavish Mhor?”