and the time when I found myself crossing the common, near the place
of execution.

But through all that horror and frenzy, I felt not that I had committed
a crime--the deed was the doing of a flash. I was conscious I could
never in cold blood have harmed a hair of Bradley's head. I considered
myself unfortunate, but not guilty; and this fond persuasion so pacified
my alarms, that, by the time I reached Portsmouth, I almost thought
as lightly of what I had done, as of the fate of the gallant French
dragoon, whom I sabred at Salamanca. But ever and anon, during the
course of our long voyage to India, sadder afterthoughts often came upon
me. In those trances, I saw, as it were, our pleasant village green,
all sparkling again with schoolboys at their pastimes; then I fancied
them gathering into groups, and telling the story of the murder; again,
moving away in silence towards the churchyard, to look at the grave of
poor Bradley. Still, however, I was loth to believe myself a criminal;
and so, from day to day, the time passed on, without any outward change
revealing what was; passing within, to the observance or suspicions
of my comrades. When the regiment was sent against the Burmese, the
bravery of the war, and the hardships of our adventures, so won me
from reflection, that I began almost to forget the accident of that
fatal night.

One day, however, while I was waiting in an outer room of the colonel's
quarters, I chanced to take up a London newspaper, and the first thing
in it which caught my eye, was an account of the trial and execution of
Dick Winlaw, for the murder of Bradley. The dreadful story scorched my
eyes;--I read it as if every word had been fire--it was a wild and
wonderful account of all. The farewell party at the Granby was
described by the witnesses. I was spoken of by them with kindness and