Fiction > Book editions > London, 1886 - Kidnapped

THE   FLIGHT  IN  THE   HEATHER.                  219
have held a pen were ever really wearied, or they
would write of it more strongly. I had no care of
my life, neither past nor future, and I scarce remem-
bered there was such a lad as David Balfour. I did
not think of myself, but just of each fresh step which
I was sure would be my last, with despair�and of
Alan, who was the cause of it, with hatred. Alan
was in the right trade as a soldier; this is the officer's
part to make men continue to do things, they know
not wherefore, and when, if the choice was offered,
they would lie down where they were and be killed.
And I dare say I would have made a good enough
private; for in these last hours, it never occurred to me
that I had any choice, but just to obey as long as I was
able, and die obeying.
Day began to come in, after years, I thought; and
by that time we were past the greatest danger, and
could walk upon our feet like men, instead of crawling
like brutes. But, dear heart have mercy! what a pair
we must have made, going double like old grandfathers,
stumbling like babes, and as white as dead folk. Never
a word passed between' us; each set his mouth and kept
his eyes in front of him, and lifted up his foot and set
it down again, like people lifting weights at a country
play; * all the while, with the moorfowl crying "peep!"
in the heather, and the light coming slowly clearer in
the east.
I say Alan did as I did.    Not that ever I looked at
* Village fair.