The constable, however,
did his duty on this occasion, and with the assistance
of some of the more reasonable persons present,
procured horses to guard the prisoner to Carlisle,
to abide his doom at the next assizes. While the
escort was preparing, the prisoner neither expressed
the least interest, nor attempted the slightest reply.
Only, before he was carried from the fatal apartment,
he desired to look at the dead body, which,
raised from the floor, had been deposited upon the
large table, (at the head of which Harry Wakefield
had presided but a few minutes before, full of
life, vigour, and animation,) until the surgeons
should examine the mortal wound. The face of
the corpse was decently covered with a napkin.
To the surprise and horror of the bystanders,
which displayed itself in a general _Ah!_ drawn
through clenched teeth and half-shut lips, Robin
Oig removed the cloth, and gazed with a mournful
but steady eye on the lifeless visage, which had
been so lately animated, that the smile of good-humoured
confidence in his own strength, of conciliation
at once, and contempt towards his enemy,
still curled his lip. While those present expected
that the wound, which had so lately flooded
the apartment with gore, would send forth fresh
streams at the touch of the homicide, Robin Oig
replaced the covering with the brief exclamation
---``He was a pretty man!''
My story is nearly ended.
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