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.

"As God is my judge, that is the truth," replied the minister, "and I
had forgotten all about it. Oh! John Percival, as you are the nephew of
my beloved Mary, answer me with truth, and say that you are innocent of
this heinous deed!"

"I am indeed innocent, my dear uncle," said the young man; "nor did I
know until this moment who the unfortunate man was, of whose untimely
death I am accused."

"Here he is, gentlemen; we've got him safe and sound!" cried several
voices; and dragging a wild and haggard-faced man, the fishers and
officials of justice approached the trio who stood by the Nut-tree-hole.

"The Lord be our guide!" exclaimed Mr. Comyn, "it is really David Bain!"
and as the wretched sexton struggled to free himself from the arms that
pinioned him, the minister, prompted by a sudden impulse, advancing
toward him, and looking steadily in his face, said--

"David Bain, look not to deny your crime, but confess it, and implore
your Maker's pardon, even at this the eleventh hour. In my Bible, this
morning, I found a paper, written by the spirit of him you murdered here
last night, and charging you with the commission of the deed."

At these strange words, which in our modern times might have produced
mirth, the guilty creature, losing all self-possession, uttere