Bailie Duke looked at me with a frown on his brow, and his eyes were steadily fixed upon my face, which could only have reflected the innocence of my heart.

“I cannot believe it,” he said in an undertone; “and yet the thing’s so clear.”

Then he laid a hand sternly on my shoulder, and said, “Ericson, my lad, I’m really sorry; but, you see, there’s no use evadin’ the hand o’ the law, and I must make you my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner, Mr. Duke!  But you cannot think that I have anything to do with the smuggling?”

“Smuggling!” said he.  “I said nothing about smuggling.  With that I have no business.  No, it’s not the smuggling, it’s the murder!”

“Murder!  What murder?” I gasped.

“The murder of Colin Lothian, the wandering beggar,” he said.

Colin Lothian murdered!  I was stunned and perplexed by these terrible words.  But, without further explanation, Mr. Duke gave orders to some men in the boat he had come out by to make a prisoner of me.  Two men came aboard and bound my arms about me with my own rope, and conducted me into the boat, while the bailie got down into the stern, where he sat ruminating as we were rowed towards the landing pier.

I was marched between two guards up the narrow street of Stromness, and the cold snow fell down upon me.  At the doors of the houses women and children, whose faces were all so familiar, looked at me, some with pity, some with shrinking fear.  I heard strange utterances of accusation.

“Who would have thought it, that he could hae done such a thing?” said one.

“See how the lad hangs his head!” said another.

“Ay, but it’s a young murderer he is,” said a third.

And this word “murderer” sounded in my ears from every side, and much I wondered what it all could mean.

When we arrived at the door of the prison house a crowd of the townspeople awaited us.  I looked round the faces fearlessly, and in their midst I recognized the wrinkled face of my skipper, Davie Flett.

“Cheer up, my hearty!” said he, as I passed by him.  “We’ll not heave anchor till ye come out; and you’ll not be long, I’ll warrant.”

But I confess it was difficult for me to feel cheerful at that moment.  Indeed, when the prison doors closed upon me, when I found myself alone in my dark cell, I became dazed and stupid, and began to think that perhaps after all I was the murderer that I had been called.  Yet what could it all mean?  Colin Lothian murdered!  My old friend Colin Lothian!

Chapter XXXVIII.  Accused Of Murder.

I need not prolong my narrative by telling you in what way I spent that first night in the cold solitude of my prison cell, or by recording the thoughts that occupied my mind through those long and weary hours.  My jailer, one Jimmy Macfarlane, an honest, kind-hearted man, who had known my father, gave me a basin of hot porridge before he locked me up for the night, and left with me, as though by accident, a good, thick horse cloth to keep me warm.  Conscious of my innocence, and trusting in the justice of my accusers, I slept well and soundly, nor did I awake until late on the following morning, when the Sabbath light stole through the crossbars of the little window, and the opening of the door aroused me.