I loaded it with my own hand,
as Gil-Martin did the other, and we took our stations behind a
bush of hawthorn and bramble on the verge of the wood, and
almost close to the walk. My patron was so acute in all his
calculations that he never mistook an event. We had not taken our
stand above a minute and a half till old Mr. Blanchard appeared,
coming slowly on the path. When we saw this, we cowered down.
and leaned each of us a knee upon the ground, pointing the pistols
through the bush, with an aim so steady that it was impossible to
miss our victim.
He came deliberately on, pausing at times so long that we
dreaded he was going to turn. Gil-Martin dreaded it, and I said I
did, but wished in my heart that he might. He, however, came
onward, and I will never forget the manner in which he came!
No, I don't believe I ever can forget it, either in the narrow
bounds of time or the ages of eternity! He was a broadly,
ill-shaped man, of a rude exterior, and a little bent with age; his
hands were clasped behind his back and below his coat, and he
walked with a slow swinging air that was very peculiar. When he
paused and looked abroad on nature, the act was highly
impressive: he seemed conscious of being all alone, and
conversant only with God and the elements of his creation.
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