''
At once, from being the most uninteresting object,
in respect to Elspat, that could exist, the form of
the stranger became awful in her eyes, as that of
a messenger descended from Heaven, expressly to
pronounce upon her death or life. She started from
her seat, and with hands convulsively clasped together,
and held up to Heaven, eyes fixed on the
stranger's countenance, and person stooping forward
to him, she looked those enquiries, which her
faltering tongue could not articulate. ``Your son
sends you his dutiful remembrance and this,'' said
the messenger, putting into Elspat's hand a small
purse containing four or five dollars.
``He is gone, he is gone!'' exclaimed Elspat;
he has sold himself to be the servant of the Saxons,
and I shall never more behold him! Tell me, Miles
MacPhadraick, for now I know you, is it the price
of the son's blood that you have put into the mother's
hand?''
``Now, God forbid!'' answered MacPhadraick,
who was a tacksman, and had possession of a considerable
tract of ground under his Chief, a proprietor
who lived about twenty miles off---``God
forbid I should do wrong, or say wrong, to you, or
to the son of MacTavish Mhor! I swear to you
by the hand of my Chief, that your son is well, and
will soon see you; and the rest he will tell you
himself.
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