“There,” said he to himself, “is the place where Mary and Alley live now.  Up there, in heaven.  I am glad of it; but still, how will I enther the cabin, and not hear their voices?  But the other poor creatures! musn’t I do something for them, or they will go too?  Yes, yes,—­but whisht! what noise is that?  Ha! a coach.  Now for it.  May God support me!  Here comes the battle for the little ones—­for the poor weak hand that’s not able to carry the drink to its lips.  Poor darlins!  Yes, darlins, your father is now goin’ to fight your battle—­to put himself, for your sakes, against the laws of man, but not against the laws of nature that God has put into my heart for my dying childre.  Either the one funeral will carry three corpses to the grave, or I will bring yez relief.  It’s comin’ near, and I’ll stand undher this tree.”

In accordance with this resolution, he planted himself under a large clump of trees where, like the famished tiger, he awaited the arrival of the carriage.  And, indeed, it is obvious that despair, and hunger, and sorrow, had brought him down to the first elements of mere animal life; and finding not by any process of reasoning or inference, but by the agonizing pressure of stern reality, that the institutions of social civilization were closed against him and his, he acted precisely as a man would act in a natural and savage state, and who had never been admitted to a participation in the common rights of humanity—­we mean, the right to live honestly, when willing and able to contribute his share of labor and industry to the common stock.

Let not our readers mistake us.  We are not defending the crime of robbery, neither would we rashly palliate it, although there are instances of it which deserve not only palliation, but pardon.  We are only describing the principles upon which this man acted, and, considering his motives, we question whether this peculiar act, originating as it did in the noblest virtues and affections of our nature, was not rather an act of heroism than of robbery.  This point, however, we leave to metaphysicians, and return to our narrative.

The night, as we said, was dark, and the carriage in question was proceeding at that slow and steady pace which was necessary to insure safety.  Sir Thomas, for it was he, sat on the dickey; Gillespie having proceeded in advance of him, in order to get horses, carriage, and everything safely put to rights without the possibility of observation.

We may as well mention here that his anxiety to keep the events of the night secret had overcome his apprehensions of the supernatural, and indeed, it may not be impossible that he made acquaintance with one of the flasks that had been destined for poor Fenton.  Of this, however, we are by no means certain; we only throw it out, therefore, as a probability.