book or a snug little hoard of small change, stowed away
amongst his shirts. And if not there, we shall find it in his
pantaloons' pocket."

"But how if he wakes?" said the other.

His companion thrust aside his waistcoat, pointed to the handle of a
dirk, and nodded.

"So be it!" muttered the second villain.

They approached the unconscious David, and, while one pointed the dagger
towards his heart, the other began to search the bundle beneath his
head. Their two faces, grim, wrinkled, and ghastly with guilt and fear,
bent over their victim, looking horribly enough to be mistaken for
fiends, should he suddenly awake. Nay, had the villains glanced aside
into the spring, even they would hardly have known themselves, as
reflected there. But David Swan had never worn a more tranquil aspect,
even when asleep on his mother's breast.

"I must take away the bundle," whispered one.

"If he stirs, I'll strike," muttered the other.

But, at this moment, a dog, scenting along the ground, came in beneath
the maple-trees, and gazed alternately at each of these wicked men, and
then at the quiet sleeper. He then lapped out of the fountain.

"Pshaw!" said one villain. "We can do nothing now. The dog's master must
be close behind."

"Let's take a drink, and be off," said the other.

The man with the dagger thrust back the weapon into his bosom, and drew
forth a pocket-pistol, but not of that kind which kills by a single
discharge. It was a flask of liquor, with a block-tin tumbler screwed
upon the mouth. Each drank a comfortable dram, and left the spot, with
so many jests, and such laughter at their unaccomplished wickedness,
that they might be said to have gone on their way rejoicing. In a few
hours they had forgotten the whole affair, nor once imagined that the
recording angel had written down the crime of murder against their
souls, in letters as durable as eternity. As for David Swan, he still
slept quietly, neither conscious of the shadow of death when it hung
over him, nor of the glow of renewed life when that shadow was
withdrawn.

He slept, but no longer so quietly as at first. An hour's repose had
snatched from his elastic frame the weariness with which many hours of
toil had burthened it. Now he stirred--now moved his lips, without a
sound--now talked in an inward tone to the noonday spectres of his
dream. But a noise of wheels came rattling louder and louder along the
road, until it dashed through the dispersing