Cummings, who was a dragoon and a despatch bearer, dreaded, above all things, to be reported drunk when carrying despatches, and fired up in an instant. Putting spurs to his steed he attempted to ride Conant down; but Conant was too quick for him, and caught the horse by the bridle as he approached, whereupon Cummings raised his sword, and, without a word of warning, struck the old man on the head, fracturing his skull (see page 193). Death followed a few hours after. Coroner Scott held an informal inquest, but because the three witnesses of the murder were looking out of the tavern window, _through the glass of the window_, the evidence was not admitted, and Cummings went unpunished. But the proverbial “sword of Damocles” hung over him all the remainder of his days. Living about Port Hope he became a confirmed drunkard, and at last fell under the wheels of a loaded waggon and was crushed to death. Such is the tragic story of the murder of the author’s grandfather. Not a friend of his dared to utter a protest against the murderous deed or perversion of justice. He was buried on the Kingston Road, about four miles easterly from the murder scene, on lot No. 6, in the second concession of the township of East Whitby. Do I blame the authorities of that day? Indeed I certainly do, and with good reason. But the fact is, that a few persons who exercised the supreme authority, as the rebellion waned, used it most arbitrarily. Good came in the end, and to-day Upper Canada is the peer of all self-governing countries, and one which I love for its own sake. Why shouldn’t I? Does it not enshrine the bones of my grandfather, who fell a victim to Family Compact misrule? Although our country is almost too young to possess a stock of legends, there are some tales and many local incidents that have been handed down from father to son as fireside tales.