as he was, but as he
would be. Then he spoke.

"You, who are my countrymen, who should be my oldest and best friends,
are become my enemies. You who were companions of my childhood are
revilers of my manhood; you have robbed me of my good name and my honour,
of my ship, of my very means of livelihood, and you are not content; you
would rob me of my country, which I hold dearer than all. And I have
never done you evil, nor spoken aught against you. As for the man
Maxwell, whose part you take, his child is starving in your very midst,
and you have not lifted your hands. 'Twas for her sake I shipped him,
and none other. May God forgive you! He alone sees the bitterness in my
heart this day. He alone knows my love for Scotland, and what it costs
me to renounce her."

He had said so much with an infinite sadness, and I read a response in
the eyes of more than one of his listeners, the guidwife weeping aloud.
But now his voice rose, and he ended with a fiery vigour.

"Renounce her I do," he cried, "now and forevermore! Henceforth I am no
countryman of yours. And if a day of repentance should come for this
evil, remember well what I have said to you."

They stood for a moment when he had finished, shifting uneasily, their
tongues gone, like lads caught in a lie. I think they felt his greatness
then, and had any one of them possessed the nobility to come forward with
an honest word, John Paul might yet have been saved to Scotland. As it
was, they slunk away in twos and threes, leaving at last only the good
smith with us. He was not a man of talk, and the tears had washed the
soot from his face in two white furrows.

"Ye'll hae a waught wi' me afore ye gang, John," he said clumsily, "for
th' morns we've paddl' 't thegither i' th' Nith."

The ale was brought by the guidwife, who paused, as she put it down, to
wipe her eyes with her apron. She gave John Paul one furtive glance and
betook herself again to her knitting with a sigh, speech having failed
her likewise. The captain grasped up his mug.

"May God bless you, Jamie," he said.

"Ye'll be gaen noo to see the mither," said Jamie, after a long space.

"Ay, for the last time. An', Jamie, ye'll see that nae harm cams to her
when I'm far awa'?"

The smith promised, and also agreed to have John Paul's chests sent by
wagon, that very day, to Dumfries. And we left him at his forge, his
honest breast torn with emotion, looking after us.

CHAPTER XXI

THE GARDENER