Presently the mournful little party came in to the east room, which still stood as they had left it, with the funeral bread and wine upon the table. Patrick came to join them immediately, and the two lads bent their heads together over the paper: a thousand pounds, borrowed by a hundred at a time from Mr. Huntley, of Melmar, over and above the mortgages which that gentleman held on the better part of the lands of Norlaw. The boys read it with a passion of indignation and shame in their hearts; their father’s affairs, on his funeral day, publicly “exposed” to all the countryside; their private distress and painful prospects, and his unthrift and weakness made the talk of every gossip in the country. Huntley and Patrick drew a hard breath, and clasped each other’s hands with the grip of desperation. But Norlaw lay unburied on his death-bed; they could not bury him till this money was paid; it was an appalling sum to people in their class, already deeply impoverished, and in the first tingle of this distressing blow, they saw no light either on one side or the other, and could not tell what to do. “But I can not understand,” said Dr. Logan, who was a man limited and literal, although a most pious minister and the father of his people; “I can not understand how law can sanction what even nature holds up her hand against. The dead--man! how dare ye step in with your worldly arrests and warrants, when the Lord has been before you? how dare ye put your bit baton across the grave, where a righteous man should have been laid this day?” “I have to do my duty,” said the immovable Elliot, “how daur ye, is naething to me. I must do according to my instructions--and ye ken, doctor, it’s but a man’s body can be apprehended ony time. Neither you nor me can lay grips on his soul.” “Hush, mocker!” cried the distressed clergyman; “but what is to be done? Mr. Blackadder, these bairns can not get this money but with time and toil. If that will do any good, I’ll go immediately to Me’mar myself.” “Never,” cried Huntley; “never--any thing but that. I’ll sell myself for a slave before I’ll take a favor from my father’s enemy.” “It’s in Whitelaw’s hands, the writer in Melrose. I’ll ride down there and ask about it,” said Blackadder; “whisht, Huntley! the minister’s presence should learn you better--and every honest man can but pity and scorn ane that makes war with the dead; I’ll ride round to Whitelaw. My wife’s a sensible woman--she’ll break it softly to your mother--and see you do nothing to make it worse. I suppose, Elliot, when I come back I’ll find you here.” “Ay, sir, I’m safe enough,” said the officer significantly, as “Tyneside” rose to leave the room. Huntley went with him silently to the stable, where his horse stood still saddled.