is coming roun’, and there’s to be a graund review o’ the troops, and what’ll ye do, wantin’ your sword?”
“I hae a timber sword just as like the ither as twa peas,—ye couldna tell the ane frae the ither. I’ll just carry that.”
The twenty-first of the month came round, and the king was to review the troops in person. A deserter was brought in, and taken before the king for him to decide upon his punishment. The king said that desertion was so common that it was necessary to devise some punishment that would strike terror into the hearts of offenders, and therefore he would condemn the culprit to decapitation, and would himself choose the comrade who must perform the execution. So the king walked along the line of troops until he came to his quondam friend of the brook, and, singling him out, he said, “You must be the executioner!”
The poor fellow sank down upon his bare knees, for he was a Highlander, and begged to be let off. “Send me agen the Southron, and I will fight to the death; but I canna imbrue my sword in the blood of a countryman, I canna do it.” But the king was inexorable, and the soldier was dragged forward, more dead than alive, to the place where a temporary scaffold had been erected. “May I not make a prayer with the unhappy wretch before he suffers?”
“Certainly, I canna refuse that,” said the king.
The soldier fell upon his knees and made a most fervent prayer that the eyes of those in authority might be opened, and that they might see the iniquity of taking away that which they never could restore, and that, in testimony of his displeasure, the Almighty would be pleased to turn his steel sword into a timber one. “Behold a miracle!” he then exclaimed, springing to his
