Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 05
General
Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 05
Scottish Borders (Scotland) -- Fiction
shut out from his sight the fearful object, supported himself by leaning
upon the wall. As the sound increased, so did the treasurer's fears; but
what words can express his agony when it drew up at the foot of the very
stair in which he stood, and a sepulchral voice issued from it--
"Is he here?"
"Just come," was the reply in a similar tone.
"Then all's right."
"O God! have mercy on my sinful soul!" screamed the treasurer, as he
sank senseless out of the foot of the stair upon the street.
How long he remained in this state, or what passed in the interval, he
could give no account. When he awoke to consciousness, he found himself
seated in a carriage jolting along at a great speed, supported on each
side by what appeared to him headless trunks; for the bright moonlight
shone in at the carriage window, and exhibited two heads detached from
their bodies dangling from the top. The glance was momentary. Uttering a
deep groan, he shut his eyes to avoid the fearful sight. He would have
spoken; but his palsied tongue refused to move, even to implore for
mercy. Wringing his hands in despair, he would have sunk to the bottom
of the coach upon his knees, but was restrained by the two figures. He
felt their grasp upon his arms, firm as one of his own vices. The same
fearful voice he had first heard fell again on his ear--"Sit still.
Utter no cry. Make a clean breast, as you hope for mercy at the major's
tribunal. He knows you well; but wishes to test your truth. Proceed!"
With a memory that called up every deed he had ever done, and sunk to
nothingness any of the actions he had at one time thought good, he
seemed as if he now stood before his Creator. All his days on earth
appeared to have been one long black scene of sin and neglected duties.
His head sunk upon his breast, and the tears of repentance moistened his
bosom. When he had finished his minute confession, a pause ensued of a
few minutes. The moon, now far in the west, was sinking behind a dense
mass of clouds. The wind began to blow fitfully, with a melancholy
sound, along the few objects that interrupted its way, and around the
fearful conveyance in which he sat, more dead than alive. The measured
tramp of the horses, and rattling of the carriage, fell on his ear like
the knell of death. He felt a load at his heart, as if the blood refused
to leave it and perform its functions. Human nature could not have
sustained itself under such circumstances much longer. The carriage
stopped; the door opened with violence; his breathing became like a
quick succession of sobs; his ears whizzed, almost producing deafness.
Still he was fearfully awake to every sensation; a painful vitality
seemed to endow every nerve with tenfold its wonted activity; all were
in action at the moment; his whole frame tingled; and the muscles seemed
to quiver on his bones. The same hollow voice broke the silence.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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