''
``Mother,'' said the unhappy young man, ``you
have taken my life; to that you have a right, for
you gave it; but touch not my honour! It came
to me from a brave train of ancestors, and should
be sullied neither by man's deed nor woman's
speech. 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.
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