elieve it," he said in an undertone; "and yet the
thing's so clear."

Then he laid a hand sternly on my shoulder, and said, "Ericson, my
lad, I'm really sorry; but, you see, there's no use evadin' the
hand o' the law, and I must make you my prisoner."

"Your prisoner, Mr. Duke! But you cannot think that I have anything
to do with the smuggling?"

"Smuggling!" said he. "I said nothing about smuggling. With that I
have no business. No, it's not the smuggling, it's the murder!"

"Murder! What murder?" I gasped.

"The murder of Colin Lothian, the wandering beggar," he said.

Colin Lothian murdered! I was stunned and perplexed by these
terrible words. But, without further explanation, Mr. Duke gave
orders to some men in the boat he had come out by to make a
prisoner of me. Two men came aboard and bound my arms about me with
my own rope, and conducted me into the boat, while the bailie got
down into the stern, where he sat ruminating as we were rowed
towards the landing pier.

I was marched between two guards up the narrow street of Stromness,
and the cold snow fell down upon me. At the doors of the houses
women and children, whose faces were all so familiar, looked at me,
some with pity, some with shrinking fear. I heard strange
utterances of accusation.

"Who would have thought it, that he could hae done such a thing?"
said one.

"See how the lad hangs his head!" said another.

"Ay, but it's a young murderer he is," said a third.

And this word "murderer" sounded in my ears from every side, and
much I wondered what it all could mean.

When we arrived at the door of the prison house a crowd of the
townspeople awaited us. I looked round the faces fearlessly, and in
their midst I recognized the wrinkled face of my skipper, Davie
Flett.

"Cheer up, my hearty!" said he, as I passed by him. "We'll not
heave anchor till ye come out; and you'll not be long, I'll
warrant."

But I confess it was difficult for me to feel cheerful at that
moment. Indeed, when the prison doors closed upon me, when I found
myself alone in my dark cell, I became dazed and stupid, and began
to think that perhaps after all I was the murderer that I had been
called. Yet what could it all mean? Colin Lothian murdered! My old
friend Colin Lothian!

Chapter XXXVIII. Accused Of Murder.

I need not prolong my narrative by telling you in what way I spent
that first night in the cold solitude of my prison cell, or by
recording the thou