"Ha! Morrison cannot be many miles behind; and if it were an
hundred, what then?"
His impetuous spirit had now a fixed purpose and motive of
action, and he turned the light foot of his country towards the
wilds, through which he knew, by Mr. Ireby's report, that
Morrison was advancing. His mind was wholly engrossed by the
sense of injury--injury sustained from a friend; and by the
desire of vengeance on one whom he now accounted his most bitter
enemy. The treasured ideas of self-importance and self-opinion
--of ideal birth and quality, had become more precious to him,
(like the hoard to the miser) because he could only enjoy them in
secret. But that hoard was pillaged--the idols which he had
secretly worshipped had been desecrated and profaned. Insulted,
abused, and beaten, he was no longer worthy, in his own opinion,
of the name he bore, or the lineage which he belonged to.
Nothing was left to him--nothing but revenge; and as the
reflection added a galling spur to every step, he determined it
should be as sudden and signal as the offence.
When Robin Oig left the door of the alehouse, seven or eight
English miles at least lay betwixt Morrison and him.
Pages:
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378