and men buried alive, and death by agonizing inches. He felt suddenly
very cold and sick, and hung in his bonds, for he had no strength
in his limbs. Then the pressure on this throat braced him, and also
quickened his numb mind. The liveliest terror ran like quicksilver
through his veins.

He endured some moments of this anguish, till after many despairing
clutches at his wits he managed to attain a measure of self-control.
He certainly wasn't going to allow himself to become mad. Death was
death whatever form it took, and he had to face death as many better
men had done before him. He had often thought about it and wondered
how he should behave if the thing came to him. Respectably, he had hoped;
heroically, he had sworn in his moments of confidence. But he had
never for an instant dreamed of this cold, lonely, dreadful business.
Last Sunday, he remembered, he had basking in the afternoon sun in
his little garden and reading about the end of Fergus MacIvor in
WAVERLEY and thrilling to the romance of it; and Tibby had come out
and summoned him in to tea. Then he had rather wanted to be a
Jacobite in the '45 and in peril of his neck, and now Providence
had taken him most terribly at his word.

A week ago---! He groaned at the remembrance of that sunny garden.
In seven days he had found a new world and tried a new life,
and had come now to the end of it. He did not want to die,
less now than ever with such wide horizons opening before him.
But that was the worst of it, he reflected, for to have a great
life great hazards must be taken, and there was always the risk of
this sudden extinguisher....Had he to choose again, far better the
smooth sheltered bypath than this accursed romantic highway on to
which he had blundered....No, by Heaven, no! Confound it, if