Here, among the dust of the guilty, lies a youth, whose name, had
he survived the ruin of the fatal events by which he was hurried
into crime, might have adorned the annals of the brave.
The minister of Glenorquhy left Dunbarton immediately after he
had witnessed the last scene of this melancholy catastrophe. His
reason acquiesced in the justice of the sentence, which required
blood for blood, and he acknowledged that the vindictive
character of his countrymen required to be powerfully restrained
by the strong curb of social law. But still he mourned over the
individual victim. Who may arraign the bolt of Heaven when it
bursts among the sons of the forest? yet who can refrain from
mourning when it selects for the object of its blighting aim the
fair stem of a young oak, that promised to be the pride of the
dell in which it flourished? Musing on these melancholy events,
noon found him engaged in the mountain passes, by which he was to
return to his still distant home.
Confident in his knowledge of the country, the clergyman had left
the main road, to seek one of those shorter paths, which are only
used by pedestrians, or by men, like the minister, mounted on the
small, but sure-footed, hardy, and sagacious horses of the
country.
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