ghastly relics—"Nay, the Pedlar was heard of afterwards! I'11 tell ye, ye may be sure these are the bones of Clarke—Daniel Clarke—whom the country was so stirred about, when we were young!"
"Right, dame, right! It is Clarke's skeleton!" was the simultaneous cry. And Walter, pressing forward, stood over the bones, and waved his hand, as to guard them from farther insult. His sudden appearance—his tall stature—his wild gesture—the horror—the paleness—the grief of his countenance—struck and appalled all present. He remained speechless, and a sudden silence succeeded the late clamour.
"And what do you here, fools?" said a voice abruptly. The spectators turned—a new comer had been added to the throng;—it was Richard Houseman. His dress—loose and disarranged—his flushed cheeks and rolling eyes—betrayed the source of consolation, to which he had flown from his domestic affliction. "What do ye here?" said he, reeling forward. "Ha! human bones! and whose may they be, think ye?"
