fled along the bridge like a low-flying water-bird.
If another man had appeared at the other end, he would have got
through between the rods, and thrown himself into the river. But
there was no one to oppose his escape; and after following the road
a little way up the river, he turned aside into a thicket of shrubs
on the nearly precipitous bank, and sat down to recover the breath
he had lost more from dismay than exertion.

The light grew. All at once he descried, far down the river, the
steeples of the city. Alas! alas! there lay poor black Sambo, so
dear to wee Sir Gibbie, motionless and covered with blood! He had
two red mouths now, but was not able to speak a word with either!
They would carry him to a churchyard and lay him in a hole to lie
there for ever and ever. Would all the good people be laid into
holes and leave Gibbie quite alone? Sitting and brooding thus, he
fell into a dreamy state, in which, brokenly, from here and there,
pictures of his former life grew out upon his memory. Suddenly,
plainer than all the rest, came the last time he stood under
Mistress Croale's window, waiting to help his father home. The same
instant, back to the ear of his mind came his father's two words, as
he had heard them through the window--"Up Daurside."

"Up Daurside!"--Here he was upon Daurside--a little way up too: he
would go farther up. He rose and went on, while the great river
kept flowing the other way, dark and terrible, down to the very door
inside which lay Sambo with the huge gape in his big throat.

Meantime the murder came to the knowledge of the police, Mistress
Croale herself giving the information, and all in the house were
arrested. In the course of their examination, it came out that wee
Sir Gibbie had gone to bed with the murdered man, and was now
nowhere to be found. Either they had murdered him too, or carried
him off. The news spread, and the whole city was in commotion about
his fate. It was credible enough that persons capable of committing
such a crime on such an inoffensive person as the testimony showed
poor Sambo, would be capable also of throwing the life of a child
after that of the man to protect their own. The city was searched
from end to end, from side to side, and from cellar to garret. Not
a trace of him was to be found--but indeed Gibbie had always been
easier to find than to trace, for he had no belongings of any sort
to betray him. No one dreamed of his having fled