“It is the last trouble I can bring you.  I have killed Robert Leslie!”

The old man uttered a cry of horror, and stood looking at his nephew as if he doubted his sanity.

“I am not going to excuse mysel’, sir.  Robert said some aggravating things, and he struck me first; but that is neither here nor there.  I struck him and he fell.  I think he hit his head in falling; but it was dark and stormy, I could not see.  I don’t excuse mysel’ at all.  I am as wicked and lost as a man can be.  Just help me awa, Uncle John, and I will trouble you no more for ever.”

“Where hae you left Robert?”

“Where he fell, about 300 yards above Rutherglen Bridge.”

“You are a maist unmerciful man!  I ne’er liked Robert, but had he been my bitterest enemy I would hae got him help if there was a chance for life, and if not, I would hae sought a shelter for his corpse.”

Then he walked to the parlor door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket.

“As for helping you awa, sir, I’ll ne’er do it, ne’er; you hae sinned, and you’ll pay the penalty, as a man should do.”

“Uncle, have mercy on me.”

“Justice has a voice as weel as mercy.  O waly, waly!” cried the wretched old man, going back to the pathetic Gaelic of his childhood, “O waly, waly! to think o’ the sin and the shame o’ it.  Plenty o’ Callendars hae died before their time, but it has been wi’ their faces to their foes and their claymores in their hands.  O Davie, Davie! my lad, my lad!  My Davie!”

His agony shook him as a great wind shakes the tree-tops, and David stood watching him in a misery still keener and more hopeless.  For a few moments neither spoke.  Then John rose wearily and said,

“I’ll go with you, David, to the proper place.  Justice must be done—­yes, yes, it is just and right.”

Then he lifted up his eyes, and clasping his hands, cried out,

“But, O my heavenly Father, be merciful, be merciful, for love is the fulfilling of the law.  Come, David, we hae delayed o’er long.”

“Where are you going, uncle?”

“You ken where weel enough.”

“Dear uncle, be merciful.  At least let us go see Dr. Morrison first.  Whatever he says I will do.”

“I’ll do that; I’ll be glad to do that; maybe he’ll find me a road out o’ this sair, sair strait.  God help us all, for vain is the help o’ man.”

CHAPTER VII.

When they entered Dr. Morrison’s house the doctor entered with them.  He was wet through, and his swarthy face was in a glow of excitement.  A stranger was with him, and this stranger he hastily took into a room behind the parlor, and then he came back to his visitors.

“Well, John, what is the matter?”

“Murder.  Murder is the matter, doctor,” and with a strange, quiet precision he went over David’s confession, for David had quite broken down and was sobbing with all the abandon of a little child.  During the recital the minister’s face was wonderful in its changes of expression, but at the last a kind of adoring hopefulness was the most decided.