"Just the old story!" was the reply; "a poor innocent lad done to death by the blood-hounds of the opposite party; and all for refusing the oath of abjuration. Four of us" continued the speaker, "were this morning seated on the brow of a hill near Dunscore; James Wishart, he who lies on this stretcher, was reading aloud from the Bible, and we were lying beside him listening to the comforting words, when suddenly four or five dragoons appeared at the base of the hill on which we were stationed. Seeing, from their threatening gestures, that harm was intended us, we prepared for flight. ’Pursue different directions,’ cried James Wishart, who was himself an excellent runner, throwing off his coat as he spoke. We shook each other by the hand and commended ourselves to God. Away went James Wishart fleet as the wind, and after him, with the fire of hate in their breasts, sped the dragoons. Finding ourselves unmolested, we stood as if spellbound, in breathless anxiety gazing after the retreating figure of our comrade. On he went, swift as the roe-deer. ’He will escape,’ murmured one who stood by my side; at that instant he stumbled and fell. ’Oh, God protect him!’ cried we all. In an instant he regained his footing, and darted on swifter than ever. Soon he disappeared in the distance. Anxious concerning our own safety, we parted and set off in different directions. This took place in the morning. Towards the hour of noon, prompted by anxiety regarding the fate of young Wishart, I, who had remained concealed beneath a cairn of stones near the spot where my friends left me, sought by a circuitous route to approach the place where last we saw him in advance of the dragoons. Alas! a few paces distant from thence there he lay extended on the ground. Observing, however, some portion of his garments in motion, I hastened joyfully forward, hoping to find him alive; but no; it was only the wind which stirred his yellow hair and a pocket-handkerchief that lay deluged in blood beside him. He was gone! His young life had ebbed away through a gun-shot wound in his breast. I sat down beside him, devoutly hoping my late companions would also return to ascertain the fate of their comrade, as I did not wish to leave his lifeless body to the mercy of the hungry ravens which hovered in circles around our heads, watching for their prey. Soon they rejoined me, another accompanying them. The dragoons, they informed me, satisfied with their morning’s work, had galloped off in another direction, therefore we might with safety convey the body of James Wishart to his mother’s cottage, which stood not far distant. Having constructed this rude bier, we laid his body upon it, and bore it on our shoulders along this path; just about a mile from thence we encountered his mother, who, alarmed at the protracted absence of her son, had set forth in search of him——"