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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 301 pages of information about David Balfour, Second Part.
to purchase greater safety.  No doubt, until I had declared and cleared myself, I might any day encounter Mungo Campbell or the sheriff’s officer, and be recognised, and dragged into the Appin murder by the heels; and, no doubt, in case I could manage my declaration with success, I should breathe more free for ever after.  But when I looked this argument full in the face I could see nothing to be ashamed of.  As for the rest, “Here are the two roads,” I thought, “and both go to the same place.  It’s unjust that James should hang if I can save him; and it would be ridiculous in me to have talked so much and then do nothing.  It’s lucky for James of the Glens that I have boasted beforehand; and none so unlucky for myself, because now I’m committed to do right.  I have the name of a gentleman and the means of one; it would be a poor discovery that I was wanting in the essence.”  And then I thought this was a Pagan spirit, and said a prayer in to myself, asking for what courage I might lack, and that I might go straight to my duty like a soldier to battle, and come off again scatheless as so many do.

This train of reasoning brought me to a more resolved complexion; though it was far from closing up my sense of the dangers that surrounded me, nor of how very apt I was (if I went on) to stumble on the ladder of the gallows.  It was a plain, fair morning, but the wind in the east.  The little chill of it sang in my blood, and gave me a feeling of the autumn, and the dead leaves, and dead folks’ bodies in their graves.  It seemed the devil was in it, if I was to die in that tide of my fortunes and for other folks’ affairs.  On the top of the Calton Hill, though it was not the customary time of year for that diversion, some children were crying and running with their kites.  These toys appeared very plain against the sky; I remarked a great one soar on the wind to a high altitude and then plump among the whins; and I thought to myself at sight of it, “There goes Davie.”

My way lay over Mouter’s Hill, and through an end of a clachan on the braeside among fields.  There was a whirr of looms in it went from house to house; bees bummed in the gardens; the neighbours that I saw at the doorsteps talked in a strange tongue; and I found out later that this was Picardy, a village where the French weavers wrought for the Linen Company.  Here I got a fresh direction for Pilrig, my destination; and a little beyond, on the wayside, came by a gibbet and two men hanged in chains.  They were dipped in tar, as the manner is; the wind span them, the chains clattered, and the birds hung about the uncanny jumping-jacks and cried.  The sight coming on me suddenly, like an illustration of my fears, I could scarce be done with examining it and drinking in discomfort.  And as I thus turned and turned about the gibbet, what should I strike on, but a weird old wife, that sat behind a leg of it, and nodded, and talked aloud to herself with becks and courtesies.

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