What
I shall do, perhaps I myself yet know not; but tempt me no
farther by reproachful words--you have already made wounds more
than you can ever heal."
"It is well, my son," said Elspat, in reply. "Expect neither
farther complaint nor remonstrance from me; but let us be silent,
and wait the chance which Heaven shall send us."
The sun arose on the next morning, and found the bothy silent as
the grave. The mother and son had arisen, and were engaged each
in their separate task--Hamish in preparing and cleaning his arms
with the greatest accuracy, but with an air of deep dejection.
Elspat, more restless in her agony of spirit, employed herself in
making ready the food which the distress of yesterday had induced
them both to dispense with for an unusual number of hours. She
placed it on the board before her son so soon as it was prepared,
with the words of a Gaelic poet, "Without daily food, the
husbandman's ploughshare stands still in the furrow; without
daily food, the sword of the warrior is too heavy for his hand.
Our bodies are our slaves, yet they must be fed if we would have
their service.
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