ay
her head close to the covered corpse--sobbing out syllables that showed
how passionately she prayed--and that she and her little niece--and, oh!
for that unhappy father--were delivering themselves up into the hands of
God. That father knelt not--neither did he sit down--nor move--nor
groan--but stood at the foot of the bed, with arms folded almost
sternly--and with his eyes fixed on the sheet, in which there seemed to
be neither ruth nor dread--but only an austere composure, which, were it
indeed but resignation to that dismal decree of Providence, had been
most sublime--but who can see into the heart of a man either righteous
or wicked, and know what may be passing there, breathed from the gates
of heaven or of hell!

Soon as the body had been found, shepherds and herdsmen, fleet of foot
as the deer, had set off to scour the country far and wide, hill and
glen, mountain and morass, moor and wood, for the murderer. If he be on
the face of the earth, and not self-plunged in despairing suicide into
some quagmire, he will be found--for all the population of many
districts are now afoot, and precipices are clomb till now brushed but
by the falcons. A figure, like that of a man, is seen by some of the
hunters from a hill-top, lying among the stones by the side of a
solitary loch. They separate, and descend upon him, and then, gathering
in, they behold the man whom they seek--Ludovic Adamson, the murderer.

His face is pale and haggard, yet flushed as if by a fever centred in
his heart. That is no dress for the Sabbath-day--soiled and
savage-looking, and giving to the eyes that search an assurance of
guilt. He starts to his feet, as they think, like some wild beast
surprised in his lair, and gathering itself up to fight or fly.
But--strange enormity--a Bible is in his hand! And the shepherd who
first seized him, taking the book out of his grasp, looks into the page,
and reads, "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed."
On a leaf is written, in her own well-known hand, "The gift of Margaret
Burnside!" Not a word is said by his captors--they offer no needless
violence--no indignities--but answer all inquiries of surprise and
astonishment (O! can one so young be so hardened in wickedness!) by a
stern silence and upbraiding eyes, that like daggers must stab his
heart. At last he walks doggedly and sullenly along, and refuses to
speak; yet his tread is firm--there is no want of composure in his face,
now th