“Join wi’ Rob Roy, or wi’ Sergeant More Cameron” (noted freebooters at that time), “and revenge Donacha’s death on all and sundry.”
“O ye unhappy boy,” said Jeanie, “do ye ken what will come o’ ye when ye die?”
“I shall neither feel cauld nor hunger more,” said the youth doggedly.
“To let him be execute in this dreadful state of mind would be to destroy baith body and soul—and to let him gang I dare not—what will be done?— But he is my sister’s son—my own nephew—our flesh and blood—and his hands and feet are yerked as tight as cords can be drawn.—Whistler, do the cords hurt you?”
“Very much.”
“But, if I were to slacken them, you would harm me?”
“No, I would not—you never harmed me or mine.”
There may be good in him yet, thought Jeanie; I will try fair play with him.
She cut his bonds—he stood upright, looked round with a laugh of wild exultation, clapped his hands together, and sprung from the ground, as if in transport on finding himself at liberty. He looked so wild, that Jeanie trembled at what she had done.
“Let me out,” said the young savage.