he
is to perpetrate his wickedness; while I, had I the weakness to wish to
put his wretched victim on his guard, and to save the helpless family,
would see my good intentions frustrated by the decrepitude which chains
me to the spot.--Why should I wish it were otherwise? What have my
screech-owl voice, my hideous form, and my mis-shapen features, to
do with the fairer workmanship of nature? Do not men receive even my
benefits with shrinking horror and ill-suppressed disgust? And why
should I interest myself in a race which accounts me a prodigy and an
outcast, and which has treated me as such? No; by all the ingratitude
which I have reaped--by all the wrongs which I have sustained--by my
imprisonment, my stripes, my chains, I will wrestle down my feelings of
rebellious humanity! I will not be the fool I have been, to swerve from
my principles whenever there was an appeal, forsooth, to my feelings; as
if I, towards whom none show sympathy, ought to have sympathy with any
one. Let Destiny drive forth her scythed car through the overwhelmed and
trembling mass of humanity! Shall I be the idiot to throw this decrepit
form, this mis-shapen lump of mortality, under her wheels, that the
Dwarf, the Wizard, the Hunchback, may save from destruction some fair
form or some active frame, and all the world clap their hands at the
exchange? No, never!--And yet this Elliot--this Hobbie, so young and
gallant, so frank, so--I will think of it no longer. I cannot aid him if
I would, and I am resolved--firmly resolved, that I would not aid him,
if a wish were the pledge of his safety!"

Having thus ended his soliloquy, he retreated into his hut for shelter
from the storm which was fast approaching, and now began to burst in
large and heavy drops of rain. The last rays of the sun now disappeared
entirely, and two or three claps of distant thunder followed each other
at brief intervals, echoing and re-echoing among the range of heathy
fells like the sound of a distant engagement.

CHAPTER VII.

Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!--
. . . .
Return to thy dwelling; all lonely, return;
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.--CAMPBELL.

The night continued sullen and stormy; but morning rose as if refreshed
by the rains. Even the Mucklestane-Moor, with its broad bleak swells of
barren grounds, interspersed with marshy pools of