“Ye’ll have no time to turn informer, my laddie,” snarled Squire Armour, turning on him fiercely; “for I mean to have ye brought before the Kirk sessions, an’ ye’ll be punished as ye deserve for the sin ye have committed, an’ ye shall sit on the cutty stool, where all your friends an’ neighbors can jeer an’ scoff at ye. This very night will I send the parish officers after ye, Robert Burns. Ye can take this warning or no, just as ye please, but I hope they find ye here. Come, lass, we’ll go hame to your mither, noo.” He drew the terrified, half-fainting girl firmly through the door and down the path to the road. “Ye’re an old hypocrite!” hooted Souter, following them to the gate, where he stood shaking his fist angrily after the departing visitors, and shouting his frank opinion of the Squire in no mild or flattering terms. “I alone am to blame,” cried Robert despairingly, as he watched them gallop madly away into the threatening night. “An’ only the bitterest sorrow, the most poignant grief will I know until that wrong is righted.” “What will ye do noo, lad?” asked Mrs. Burns, breaking in upon the melancholy sadness which enveloped him like a pall. (She had entered the room in time to hear Squire Armour’s parting injunction.) “Ye heard what the Squire threatened. Oh, dinna disdain the littleness of prudence, my son.” “I willna, mother,” replied Robert dully, after a pause. “I have decided to go awa’ from Mossgiel.” “Go awa’?” she repeated fearfully. “Nay, nay, laddie, ye mustna! I fear for ye in your present state o’ mind.” “I must, mother,” he answered wildly. “I willna sit on the cutty stool to be made the laughing stock o’ the whole neighborhood, to bring shame on ye all.” He walked restlessly up and down the room as he continued feverishly, “I willna stay here to skulk from covert to covert under all the terrors of a jail, for I ken that in a little while the merciless pack of the law will be baying at my heels like bloodhounds.” He turned to her suddenly, “Mother, I mean to leave Scotland, perhaps forever.” “Oh, nay, nay, my bairn; I canna, I willna, let ye go,” answered his mother, clinging to him passionately. “There, there, mither, dinna make it harder for me.” He put his arm around her tenderly and pressed her to him for a moment. “Noo, mother,” he said quietly, “will ye pack my chest? I have nae time to spare,” and he led her gently to the door. “Where will ye be goin’?” inquired Gilbert. “To the Indies, to Jamaica,” replied Robert quickly. “Ye ken Dr. Douglas has a place for me there as overseer of his plantation. He has offered it to me mony times.” He turned in nervous haste to his mother, who stood in the doorway anxiously watching him. “Hurry, mither, please, I am in torture o’ mind.” “Very well, laddie,” she answered sorrowfully. “God will direct your footsteps aright,” and she closed the door behind her and quickly made her way to his chamber. “Will ye see Mary before ye go, Robert?” asked Gilbert.