There was but little life
left in him, and it was not easy for him to explain his sorry plight
when the words came only with hard-fought breathing, hoarse and low.
"She will pe a pedlar," he said, "an' she will haf peen robbed and
murdered.... Och, so little she will pe hafing, and now all gone....
Ochone, ochone!" Gently the laird put his questions to the dying man.
The robbery had been committed only a short time before. The assailant
was a big man--"a fery big man"--an Irishman, and he could not have gone
far. Up again on his wondering steed sprang the laird, and at
steeplechase pace rode on. Near Birney-knowe he came in sight of his
quarry, a powerful six-footer, but carrying too much flesh to do more
than a good sprint without failing. In a neighbouring field a ploughman
with his pair of horses was turning up the rich brown loam. "_Hup_,
Jess! Woa-_hi_, Chairlie!" sounded his cheerful voice from over the
dyke, above the jingle of his horses' harness as they turned at the
head-rig with their greedy following of screaming, white-winged gulls.
"_Hi!_ Will Little!" shouted the laird. "Leave the plough, lad! There's
murder afoot the day! Come and help catch the murderer!"
William Little, a handsome fellow of six feet, clean built and athletic,
required but little explanation.
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